Spark
by Modern Audrey
Summary: Things have changed, for Pyro as well as Rogue. But there are certain things that no expanse of time or distance can alter. Post X3 Ryro.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter One**

* * *

The mansion was ridiculously dark at this time of night, all of the lights turned out and the blinds on each window securely closed. It made it somewhat more difficult to navigate the hallway connecting the male and female dormitories, but Rogue was nonetheless glad for the darkness. The last thing that she needed was to be caught outside of the girls' dorms at this time of night once again.

She had taken to roaming the hallways at night not long after her arrival at the mansion, and the habit had only intensified over the past few months. The cure had left her with the ability to touch, but it hadn't done anything for the lingering memories and personalities running loose in her head. With roommates, her options were limited when struggling with insomnia—or, failing that, when she was determined not to sleep because she didn't know whose nightmares she would be encountering. So, as blaring the television or stereo was out, she had found wandering the halls to be the best option for passing the night. Or at least the most distracting option.

Distraction wasn't her real goal in being out tonight, though. Not distraction by walking anyway. Her eyes focused on the only real source of light in the vicinity, glowing iridescent against the surrounding darkness.

That, there: There was her target. She licked her lips in anticipation for the one thing she knew was sure to momentarily distract her from her misery. A pleasure she generally denied herself, partly from fear that over-use would dampen its power, and partly for fear of the increase of her waistline.

She approached the snack machines gleefully; one hand gripping her loose change and one holding together a robe that's belt had long since been lost in the wash. God, that brownie was gonna taste sweet.

She feared that she had come to rely on chocolate entirely too much recently, if the increasing tightness of her jeans was any indication. But, damn it, what did she care?

Her boyfriend sure as hell didn't seem to. Not lately, anyway.

_No._ She chose to nip off that thought immediately. She absolutely refused to think about Bobby and his wandering eye anymore tonight. She was having her brownie, and she was going to bed—whether she would actually be able to sleep was questionable, but she was determined to try for once.

She studied the snack machine in front of her, relieved to see that the almond-topped brownies she loved so much were in stock, and began to feed her change into the machine. Before she could put more than one dime in, though, a creaking floorboard off to her left startled her, and the change went flying.

Rogue immediately tensed, stepping back from the light of the machine into the shadows. Her best friend was a stalking, growling wild man with killer instincts. It was impossible for her not to have picked up on some of his more helpful characteristics along the way—particularly as a small piece of him lingered somewhere in her psyche.

She listened, eyes futilely scanning the darkness of her surroundings, for several minutes. When nothing came, she rolled her eyes—still alert, but generally feeling like an overly-paranoid imbecile. She went down on her knees beside the coke machine, rooting around on the ground for her lost quarters and dime. The first two she found easily enough, but the dime eluded her. With nothing to light her way, it was like searching for a needle in a haystack.

Well, that was just great. The stupid machine wouldn't take dollars, and it had taken her a good twenty minutes to locate the loose change she needed. She exhaled in frustration, fighting the urge to curse as she leaned in for one last search of the floor between the coke machine and the snack machine.

Without warning—without a rustle of clothing, without a creaking floorboard, without a single _freaking_ sign of movement—a lighter flared to life mere inches from her face.

"Need a light?"

* * *


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

* * *

Rogue flinched back, momentarily blinded by the sudden flare of light. It seemed all the more intense due to the darkness of the hallway around her. Her heart was racing, and she knew that her eyes, as always, reflected every emotion she was experiencing. She just hoped that John—John? Pyro? John? What was he even calling himself nowadays? Whoever he was, she just hoped that he was having as much difficulty seeing in the dark as she was.

She had always heard that deprivation of one sense only intensified the others. Maybe that was why hearing his voice for the first time after so long was able to strike such a chord within her, riding along her nerve endings and creating a warm tingle that she felt right down to her toes. And, oh God, her toes… She was suddenly all too aware of her mint green bunny slippers, to say nothing of her sleep-mussed hair.

Her voice, when she spoke, was somewhat faster and more clipped than her accent typically permitted. "What are you doing here?"

His ridiculously full lips curled into a sneer, and then she lost sight of his features as the lighter was abruptly extinguished. Not that she needed it. She might not see him as he let out that sharp, mocking breath of laughter that wasn't quite laughter, but she heard him, and she saw him in her head; saw the way his eyes crinkled almost distastefully, his head just slightly thrown back.

"Come on, Roguey. Don't tell me you missed all the excitement." His voice was cold, derisive. And, beneath that sardonic veneer, filled with such disgust and pain that it made her heart ache for him.

No, she hadn't missed it. How could she? It was the talk of the mansion, after all. Everyone knew the story, but that wasn't stopping them from talking about it. In the hallways, in the lunch line, in the classrooms… It was driving her crazy the way that they were talking, gossiping about something they had no right to, about things that they couldn't understand in a million years; things that only Magneto's memories buried deep within her mind allowed her to even come close to understanding.

It was the general consensus of the school that Pyro had known what he was getting into when he joined up with the Brotherhood. That he deserved what he got. It was that phrase in particular... whispered guiltily, but sincerely, behind clasped hands and closed doors—behind her own door, no less. It was enough to make her sick.

She had been beyond angry with John after his defection. She still was. But, God, whenever she closed her eyes she could see him locked away in that tiny cell, wounded and bleeding, with nothing to do but wait to die. And no matter how much his betrayal had hurt, no matter how many times she had cursed him in the aftermath of his departure… when she heard those words, it was all she could do not to lay into every one of the loud-mouthed, unfeeling gossips she could get at. Roommates included.

Truth be told, the inane rumors surrounding John had a lot more to do with her increasingly frequent chocolate lust than she was willing to admit to even herself. Bobby was a big part of the problem, yes, but he had become little more than an afterthought since Pyro had returned to the mansion. In the face of everything he'd been through, worrying about Bobby's possible desire for Kitty seemed beyond childish. And, although she couldn't quite restrain herself from thinking about them at least fifty times a day, she felt a twinge of guilt every time that she did.

She'd heard about Bobby's daring confrontation with Pyro at least a hundred times, ninety-nine of which had been from the oh-so-admiring _freaking_ Kitty Pryde. Left for dead by what was left of his precious Brotherhood, he'd been among a handful of other wounded rebel mutants to be picked off the battlefield by human law enforcement and transported to a prison camp. What he'd gone through there… She shuddered, nausea rising within her at the thought of what he must have suffered at the hands of his captors.

The X-Men had come to the rescue, of course. Brotherhood or not, no one deserved to be kept locked up in a cell the size of a dog house, deprived of food until the point of starvation, beaten senseless whenever the guards needed something amusing to occupy their time.

Logan had told her how they'd raided the camp, having to physically carry out the majority of the prisoners. They had been chained up so long—kept from food and water—that they didn't even have the ability to crawl away once their chains were released. Pyro had been the only captured Brotherhood member to survive internment in the camp.

They were all in a safe house now; one of Professor Xavier's many properties, as she had goaded Logan into telling her. Besides that, the only thing she knew was that it was at an undisclosed location, somewhere far from Westchester, and Kurt Wagner was in charge of the rehabilitation facility.

They were all there except for Pyro, anyway. The X-Men may have saved him, but, after all, he was still Brotherhood. He was sent directly from the prison to the med bay and then right back to prison—except that his new enclosure happened to be a high-security, but relatively comfortable (or so Logan had assured her) cell in one of the upper level areas of the mansion. She had never it seen before, as it was restricted to students, but she had nagged him into giving her a fairly decent description. As he had said, running a frustrated hand through that messy hair of his, 'what the hell else were they supposed to do with him? Send him to fucking day care in the nursery?'

Rogue averted her eyes—not that he could actually see them—and fought back the wave of pity rising in her chest. If she knew one thing about Pyro, it was that he did not respond well to that particular emotion. If he detected the slightest sign of it in her, she just knew he would snarl some stupid insult at her, being the hateful bastard he so often was, and take off. And that was the very last thing she wanted. She'd been wanting to see her former friend for so long, and now that she was doing so it felt completely unreal—especially in light of his recent incarceration and the very unusual circumstances surrounding this little reunion. She didn't want it to end so soon, or she just knew she'd spent the next month wondering if her poor, overcrowded mind had made the whole meeting up.

She realized that she was taking too long to reply to his question, but, really, what was she supposed to say? He knew full well that she hadn't 'missed the excitement.' She scuffed one little green bunny against the cold hardwood floor, finally settling on her standard method of replying for when she was in an awkward situation. Stammering and idiocy, punctuated by a noticeable deepening of her accent. "No, of course not. How could I have missed it?" So smooth. "I mean… when I asked what you were doin' here, what I meant was—"

"I know what you meant. 'What the fuck are the geniuses running this place doing, letting Big Bad Mister Brotherhood run around loose while all their precious little charges are sleeping helplessly,' right?"

She fought the urge to roll her eyes. No one could mix arrogance and insults into casual conversation quite like John. If it weren't so irritating, she might admire his talent.

"Not the words that I would have chosen, but, yeah, that's the general idea."

He shrugged, turning his back on her and walking over to study the coke machine. Rogue squeezed her eyes shut in sheer frustration, trying not to be bothered by his rude behavior, seeing as how he'd just been through hell and all. She didn't succeed, but at least she tried.

When she opened her eyes, she was in for quite a shock. The image Pyro presented—the glow from the coke machine creating the first semi-decent look she'd gotten of him all night—was so different from the John she had carried around in her mind. She hadn't seen him face-to-face since that nightmare day on the X-Jet, and his hair took her by complete surprise. While she experienced an intense period of mourning for that chocolate brown hair she had always secretly admired, she couldn't help but smile at his new hair color. It was such a John thing to do. Changing his hair to match the fire that he was so obsessed with.

Still, it was rather irritating. Back in the old days, when they—Bobby and John and her—had been best buddies, she had gotten a kick out of tangling her gloved fingers into his hair whenever she wanted to tease him. He would flash her that cute bad boy grin, never once flinching away from her deadly skin. Moments like that, there was always something in his eyes that caught her off guard. Softer than what she was used to coming from him, but with something intangible simmering just beneath the surface. And then she would pull back—laughing awkwardly, never quite able to meet his eyes—but only after noticing how incredibly soft his hair had felt, even through her gloves. She wondered vaguely if the bleach had ruined that, leaving it dry and damaged.

The thought annoyed her.

He seemed taller, and perhaps a bit more muscular, but it was impossible to tell very much when the only lighting came from the soft glow of the machine. One thing was for sure; he was much too thin. Unhealthily so, and she wanted nothing more than to track down every single one of the bastards who had left him to starve in that damned dirty cell, and systematically drain them dry.

Not that that was really an option anymore. Nonetheless, Rogue winced, uncomfortable with the direction her thoughts were taking. Any urge to do harm with her powers always left her feeling vaguely guilty, irrationally certain that if she looked behind her back she would see Bobby and the rest of the school staring at her with suspicion and disgust, just as they had done after the stabbing incident with the Wolverine.

Rogue realized that her mind had once again drifted, as it had been doing so much of lately. She lifted her gaze to John's face, and was startled to find his eyes fixed directly upon her, watching her watching him. Something about the sudden tensity of his pose coupled with that same odd, indefinable look in his eyes made her stomach clench strangely, and brought a slight flush to her cheeks. She averted her eyes, turning slightly and attempting to appear intensely interested in her shadow.

Rogue heard him cross the few steps separating him, and glanced back up, surprised, when he pressed something cold into her hand. She looked at the frosty canister she was now holding, and then her lips curved into a soft, very sweet smile. "Cherry Coke?" She asked, inexplicably touched that he had remembered her favorite beverage.

John winked at her. "What else?"

God, she must have really been out of it if she hadn't even noticed him operating the coke machine.

John abruptly grasped her empty left hand, and Rogue struggled to keep hold of the drink in her other as she was suddenly pulled in the direction of the boys' dorms. She resisted. "John, what the hell do you think you're doing?"

He tugged at her harder, clearly exasperated. "Look, you wanna know what's going on with me? Why you're suddenly running into your favorite bad guy in the hall at two in the morning? That's fine, but I'm sure as hell not getting into it in the middle of the fucking hallway."

Rogue hesitated, nervously catching her bottom lip between her teeth. It would be stupid of her, she knew that much without a doubt. More than once she had trusted John, only to regret it later—you'd think she'd have learned her lesson by now, actually. But she did want to keep talking to him, and she was dying to know why he was suddenly out of his cell and buying her Cherry Cokes.

She was conflicted; she knew it was a bad idea. The Wolverine in her head was growling that the whole situation was a _damn_ bad idea. Magneto was curiously silent—which in itself was reason enough to put her on high alert. And, of course, the John in her head was practically shoving her in the direction of the real John.

_Come on, what could it hurt? One little scream and the whole mansion will be at your door. And really, Roguey, I'm feeling kind of wounded here. What reason have I ever given you not to trust me?_ At her scoff of disbelief, _Oh, come on, that's not a good reason…_

Rogue sighed, wishing that, just once, she could make a decision without group participation.

John was still gripping her free hand, though he'd finally quit his incessant tugging. He now looked at her with that infernal tilt to his left brow, and, when a wicked smirk settled upon his face, she knew he was about to pull an ace. Slowly, he reached his hand into the pocket of the loose grey hoodie he was wearing with a pair of dark sweatpants. She tensed, as he pulled out…

_…Oh God..._

"Did I mention that I just bought the last brownie?"

Just like that, the battle was over. Not that she'd ever stood a chance, anyway.

_

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_Thanks so much to my awesome reviewers: **Red Magic, Dama Jade, zshp1411, Cara, Evil lady X, PsychoTherapy17, xsuzyxninjax, invisible-next, and Chica De Los Ojos Café! You guys are the greatest!**_

_A really, really big(!) thank you to **PsychoTherapy**, who was so cool as to beta this chapter for me!_


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

* * *

To say that Rogue was surprised with their eventual destination would be an understatement of infinite proportions. 

"I don't believe it," she muttered under her breath as John unlocked the door. He ignored her, flopping down on the bed and then, oddly enough, reaching over to turn the heater up to even warmer than it already was. She had never known John to be effected by the heat before, yet walking into his room felt like entering a freaking sauna. But that wasn't truly what caught her off guard.

"This is some hell of a prison cell."

In actuality, it was one of the rooms reserved for important guests of Xavier and prospective donors to the mansion. The series of comparatively luxurious rooms were separated from the male dormitories by a sound-proofed wall, a large kitchen and parlor room, and a constantly locked door. Generally a good thing, as, before the rooms had been isolated, visitors had tended to rethink their donations when confronted with the inevitable noise—and occasional water balloon attack—that close proximity to the male students necessarily entailed.

Rogue turned on the overhead light, looking about with interest. It wasn't truly all that special; just white walls, one window, and the type of furnishings you'd typically find in a basic hotel room. But, to someone who had spent the past several years living in a small, overcrowded dormitory, it seemed the height of luxury. As it was, the queen sized bed and large open closet had her gasping in awe. And, when she curiously glanced behind a door just off the far corner, she abruptly spun around to glare at John in disgust. "Absolutely unbelievable. You've got your own bathroom."

He just rolled his eyes at her antics. "Will you knock it off? You're giving me a headache. And cut off that damned light."

She obliged him, still shaking her head resentfully. Whoever said crime didn't pay was obviously a complete and utter simpleton.

The pretty bay window directly across from her caught her eye, and she moved over to admire the view. The shades were pulled back and the neutral colored curtains drawn, allowing the combined light of the moon and the security lights around the grounds to shine through. As a result, the room was fairly well illuminated even without the overhead light. Still, the atmosphere was just dim enough to add to Rogue's thinly veiled discomfort. She was perfectly aware of the multitude of risks she was taking in this little reunion, all for the sake of information and chocolate. And, damn him, he still hadn't relinquished either to her.

The whole situation suddenly seemed unbearably funny. Here she was, green bunny feet and all, in what was apparently John's bedroom. John, the traitor, who she hadn't seen for months that—all things considered—felt like years. It was enough to put anyone on edge.

To make things worse, the Wolverine in her head was providing a running commentary on her stupidity.

Rogue sighed, fighting combined urges to run for the hills and to comb her robe pockets for one of the aspirin she always kept on hand. Instead, she steeled herself, staring fixedly out the window as she focused every ounce of her energy on producing a mental picture of Logan. She held the image for several moments, making sure that it wouldn't fade. When she finally felt secure in her ability to maintain the visual, she added to it: first a brick wall, followed by a door frame, and finally—and this took every ounce of focus she had—she pictured a door, heavy and thick and impermeable, slamming firmly shut on the image of her overly vocal protector.

The relief was instantaneous, and, even as exhaustion rippled through her, Rogue felt the headache throbbing in her temples subside noticeably. She breathed a sigh of relief, sending a silent 'thank you' to Xavier—wherever he was—for teaching her _that_ particular trick. She then turned from the window, feeling a bit more up to whatever John might throw at her.

He was still lying on the bed, but now had both arms crossed behind his head. His posture was one of deceptive relaxation, and seemed vaguely rehearsed. His brow was lightly arched in one of those expressions that only John could pull off effectively, and he surveyed her condescendingly—clearly aware that she was still grappling with the urge to take off running. It crossed her mind that he was attempting to subtly intimidate her with his overly-confident pose.

It might even have worked, if she could just get past the day-glow effect that the light shining through the window was having on his newly dyed hair.

Rogue fought the urge to snicker, though she was fully aware that her amusement was misplaced, to say nothing of completely idiotic, in the given situation.

And, really, therein lay the problem. She just couldn't bring herself to be intimidated by John—to see him as Pyro, so to speak. It didn't matter how many stories she heard of his various transgressions, or how reliable the sources were. It didn't matter that she knew, and knew for a fact, that he had done things that should make her hate him. That he had served voluntarily, and even gleefully, under a man she feared more than she had ever feared anyone or anything in her life. She wasn't afraid of him, and, no matter how many times she told herself that she should, she just couldn't force herself to feel hatred for him.

Sure, she wanted to kick his ass. She wanted to strap him down, and then scream at him for hours and hours until he finally understood what an idiot he was. Occasionally she even wanted to kill him. Violently. Taking in that mocking expression on his face, she actually kind of wanted to kill him now—after spending a sizable amount of time on the other two options, of course.

But, no matter how hard she tried, she just couldn't escape the fact that, intermingled tightly and inseparably with all of that murderous rage, was the all-encompassing desire to fuss and coo over the multitude of bruises visible on the uncovered areas of his skin—now exposed fully by the light flickering through the bedroom window—and then force-feed him a bowl of fresh stew and a full batch of homemade chocolate chip cookies. And, God, was being Southern a pain in the ass sometimes.

Rogue shook her head in defeat, finally breaking their little visual stand-off, and approached him. She stopped a moment to flick on the bedside lamp, and then perched on the edge of his bed—as far away as possible, yet still close enough to make a statement. _Don't try to intimidate me, Fire Boy. I'm not afraid of you._

His brow shot even further up, and he glanced pointedly between her and the lamp, obviously displeased.

She just glared right back. "I want the light on, John. You want to turn it off, fine. But the minute you do, I'm out of here."

He appeared to be knocked suitably off-kilter by her sudden burst of confidence, and made no move to turn off the lamp. She would wager that his surprise was not so much due to her assertiveness—he did know her, after all—as her abrupt turn-around in behavior.

So much the better.

She took advantage of his brief distraction to snag her brownie from beside him, and felt incredibly smug when she was able to take it even as his hand rose to block it from her reach. She looked at him challengingly, and he gave a mocking shrug, clearly pretending not to care. She saw right through him, though. His little training sessions with the enemy should have enabled him to keep guard of a small confection. The fact that he had failed to do so made him look just vaguely like a jackass.

She tore into the wrapper, chewing away happily after finally liberating the gooey, chocolatey goodness from its plastic prison.

Of course, John even managed to ruin that.

Lying as he was, the light of the lamp reflected off of his hollowed cheekbones and eyes—overly-prominent in contrast to the unnatural thinness of his face. Her own brown eyes moved down his body slightly, and she took in the alarmingly evident outline of his clavicle. The large bite she had just swallowed lodged somewhere in her throat, which all of the sudden felt too thick. Rogue winced, catching sight of a particularly nasty scratch running the length of his collar line and disappearing beneath his sweater.

She gave up. "I'm not hungry anymore," she muttered, and, rolling the plastic back over the virtually untouched brownie, she placed it squarely upon his chest.

He looked at her like she was insane. Hell, she probably was. "So? Do I look like a fucking trash receptacle?"

"Do you really want me to answer that?" she shot back.

God, this was so like old times. She felt a brief period of nostalgia for the days when they were nothing more than classmates, trading insults and banter just like they were now. Even in the months before she and Bobby had grown closer, John had been her friend. Okay, so it was an odd friendship; some of her best memories included him tripping her as she walked up the aisle to her seat, compulsively stealing her assignments and handing them in as his own, and occasionally singeing her hair when she made the mistake of sitting in front of him.

Not that she had been much better. She freely admitted that she had gotten an unnatural high out of successfully bossing around the school wild-card when nobody else seemed able to.

It hadn't mattered, though, that their friendship was a bit off-kilter. Frankly, even among a mansion of 'freaks', they weren't the most normal people around. It had been nice.

And now, that was completely irrelevant. She didn't like to point fingers, but… he had screwed it up. Her good humor vanished, and she sighed sadly.

"Just eat the brownie, John. Please." Her accent was thicker than she liked, and her headache began to return full-force. Her mind, thankfully, remained momentarily free of any guest commentary.

To her vague surprise, he did as she asked—though only after engaging in a series of very John-esque facial expressions that made it clear he was only doing so because he was mildly hungry, and not because she had told him to.

She looked away, not bothering to hide her distaste when he polished off the entire confection in two sloppy bites, licking the chocolate off his fingers when he was done. Trying to find something to distract her from the disgusting sight in front of her, she reached over to turn the heat down a notch.

John's hand on arm stopped her. "Just leave it alone, will you?"

She started to protest, until she noticed a new cluster of bruises peeking out from the lace up collar of his hoodie sweatershirt—this patch suspiciously hand-shaped, and running across the left side of his throat. Across the right side was a deep gash. She wondered if it could have come from a knife. As was so infuriatingly often the case, her irritation towards him vanished behind a surge of protectiveness, and she left the heat where it was--regardless of the fact that sweat was starting to pool under her heavy robe.

His hand traced down her arm, coming to rest on her gloved hand. It tightened to the point of discomfort. She looked up in protest, but the angry words died in her throat at the intensity burning behind his blue eyes. "I'm surprised you even bother with these anymore."

Her eyes closed briefly as she pushed back the surge of anger and pain his words triggered. Her teeth began a slow grind, but she managed to get her emotions under control with little real effort. She had expected this confrontation from the moment John stepped foot—or, rather, was carried—back into the mansion. At any rate, his words were nothing compared to those that the lingering vestiges of his personality had been growling into her subconscious for the last few months.

She didn't regret the decision. Not most of the time, anyway. But God, did she swing back and forth a lot. And the backs…well, they were a lot less pleasant than the forths.

She cut herself off mid-thought. Thinking about it was irrelevant. For better or worse, the damage—if you wanted to call it that—was done. And she refused to let John give her shit about it, whether she deserved it or not.

"Listen, Johnny," she said, keeping eye contact with him even as she brushed his hand away. "Everything you've got to say? I've heard it before. A lot. And before you start judging me, I'd start looking at your own life. As far as general screw ups go, I'd say we're about even."

His jaw tightened, and she held up a hand to quell his reaction.

"Don't, alright? I'm not saying you don't have a reason to be angry with me, and I'm not saying we should forgive and forget. I don't think either of us could, even if we actually wanted to try. But, can we just not talk about it? Because I really, _really_ don't want to talk about it."

She could tell that it was all he could do not to lash out at her—it was pretty damned obvious—but he managed not to. His muscles relaxed a bit, and, though he remained sitting up, the anger seemed to have momentarily left him. Rogue's tongue darted out to moisten her bottom lip, and she thanked whoever was listening that _that_ particular scene had been avoided, or at least postponed. She shifted her position on the bed to face him more fully. "So, are you gonna tell me now?"

She didn't have to elaborate any further. Neither of them had forgotten why they were here together in the first place, though they'd been doing a lovely job of dancing around the issue for the better part of a half-hour.

He shrugged, not quite meeting her eyes, and went for his lighter on the bedside table. Before reaching it, though, he stopped—instead clasping his hand firmly upon his own knee.

"So, I guess your boyfriend's regaled you with countless retellings of his 'heroic victory' at Alcatraz?"

She fought the urge to roll her eyes. "Oh yeah. Bobby's been a real freaking fount of information. Never stops talking."

He looked up sharply at the bitterness tingeing her voice, brows drawing together, and she could honestly say it was the most cheerful she'd seen him look all night.

"Uh oh," he sing-songed quite idiotically. "Something's not right in Barbie and Ken's magical dreamhouse."

Rogue made a disbelieving face at him. "'Barbie and Ken's magical dreamhouse?' What the hell? Have you been watching too many Saturday morning cartoons, or are you just insane?"

He had the good grace to look vaguely embarrassed, and, after leveling a glare at him, she shook it off. "At any rate, if you're asking me if I know Bobby kicked your ass at Alcatraz, the answer is yes."

Her little dig had the desired effect. His head shot up, and he appeared ready to maim something. "Is that what the stupid fucker's been saying? He fucking head-butted me! Since when does that count as anything other than a cheap shot?"

She snickered in the face of his righteous indignation. As a matter of fact, neither Kitty nor Bobby had mentioned a head-butt. "You know what? I really wouldn't use that for an excuse. It kind of doesn't make either of you look any better. And, as to the other…like you've never fought dirty in your life. Get over it."

He didn't look at all close to getting over it, but he went on with the story after a brief pause. "Anyway, your fucking boyfriend left me to rot on the ground. I woke up in some hellhole in Arizona." He looked up sharply, as if to challenge her. "I'm not talking about that."

She just inclined her head in agreement. If he didn't want to, she definitely wasn't going to force him too. Not that she could anyway.

He shrugged, averting his eyes and moving along. "Well, not much after that, really. I woke up here."

She was pretty sure her jaw dropped. That was all he was going to tell her? Not a chance. "'Not much after that?' How about why you're staying in one of the best rooms in the place—or for that matter, why you're not in jail?" she demanded. "If you're not being confined, why would you want to stay here? Why are you wondering the hallways? John, I think I've been pretty patient here. I came to your room with you. I held up my part of the deal. Now, tell me what the hell is going on or I'm going to have to hurt you."

He nodded slowly, but grudgingly, still not quite meeting her eyes. His reaction was uncharacteristic, and she kicked her inner lie-detector into full gear.

"Really, Rogue, there's not that much to it. The X-Men decided I wasn't a threat," he looked more than mildly irritated by that. "So they let me go yesterday. I'm still here because they may be okay with letting me out while they're close by, but they sure as hell aren't letting me out of sight anytime soon. I'm in this room because your guard dog didn't want me in with the students, and" his lips curled in disgusted irritation "the hairy bastard said he didn't want me in a room on his hall, 'stinking up the place while he tried to sleep.' They didn't know what else to do with me." He gestured to a narrow band encircling his lower leg. "Check out my ankle."

She looked closely. "That's one of those house-arrest monitors, right?" At his affirmation, "So it's just to keep you on the grounds?"

He nodded, and she rolled her eyes back in disbelief. "You've got to be kidding me, John. Freaking Martha Stewart had to wear one of those!"

"Don't rub it in," he growled lightly, fixing her with a patented look of death. She just shook her head in bemusement.

"But…are they insane? What if you decided to torch the place or something?"

He looked truly angry with her for a moment. Then, yet again, he looked away. "Apparently they trust me. Stupid, huh?" She thought that she may have insulted him; he was glaring into space, looking vaguely like he wanted to set fire to the curtains.

There was something going on here, underneath the surface. He was behaving oddly, clearly hiding something. Rogue found that her mistrust of him was growing, even as she felt herself becoming more at ease in his presence. She would definitely be discussing this with Logan in the morning... Which would be in, oh, about two hours. God, it was late. She suppressed a yawn, vaguely wanting to leave, but not really sure how he would take it. She decided to stay where she was for a while.

As she watched John stew from the corner of her eye, her attention became focused on a thin white scar running through the corner of his right brow. It was hardly defacing—tame, in the face of all the other wounds she'd noticed. It looked older than the others, and she would guess it resulted from the barest nick of a knife. Or ice?

She bit her lip, hesitating, before the very stupid, very impulsive urge became too great to resist. Subtly sliding the gloves from her hands, she reached up to caress the light scar. He didn't flinch, and she thought she should be surprised. Even Bobby was still mildly uncomfortable with her touch, despite all the time that had passed since her injection. Hence the reason she still wore her gloves. Everyone, including herself, was a lot more comfortable that way.

But, then again, John had never flinched away from her, had he?

At the whisper soft touch of her hand on his face, he exhaled harshly, something strange coloring his eyes. It was odd, but she had never been quite so aware of just how blue they were. She maintained contact with him, her thumb tracing over the thin white line as her fingers settled in his hair. A smile whispered across her lips; it was still as soft as ever.

"Did Bobby do this?" she asked quietly. He snorted depreciatingly.

"Yeah, right. Like he could. That was from…"

"Someone else," she finished for him. She didn't want him have to talk about his time at the camp. Didn't even want him to have to think about it.

He was nodding slowly, his eyelids drifting closed. Maybe that was why it caught her so off guard when his hand closed around her wrist and he pulled her down, her head settling on the pillow next to his. He maintained his grip, and their enjoined hands came to rest in the soft crease between the two cushions. She thought about protesting, but the pillow was soft, and he didn't appear to be doing anything but lying next to her. She held her tongue, settling into a more comfortable position.

He might have been surprised by her easy acceptance, or he might not have; he was always so difficult to read, and she was too tired to put the needed effort into finding out. She blinked rapidly, the combination of the over-heated room and the softness of the bed catapulting her slight sleepiness into full-blown exhaustion.

"John?" she murmured. His thumb was tracing her knuckles, and his hand felt good. Soft, but hard at the same time.

His only answer was a soft grunt of acknowledgment. His eyes were closed.

"Did you miss me while you were gone?"

The corners of his lips kicked up slightly. "Not really."

She poked him. Hard.

His eyes popped open, and he caught her free hand, smirking. "Hey, lay off. It's not like I had a lot of time to myself. Everybody thinks being a mutant freedom fighter—"

"Terrorist."

"Shut up. Everybody thinks being a _freedom fighter_" he enunciated, and she kept quiet just because she was too damned tired to argue at the moment, "is all glory and excitement. Really, it's just hour after hour of training to kick ass, and then kicking ass. If I wasn't doing either, I was sleeping until it was time to do it again." He hesitated, and she got the feeling he didn't really want to say what he was about to say. "But, you know. I might have thought about you. A few times."

She stayed quiet, thinking about that. And trying to work up the motivation to stand up and go to her own room. Several moments passed in which they lay together in silence, only their hands touching. John had arranged hers so that her palms were facing one another, fingers straight but interlaced, and he was skimming his own fingers up and down each digit, occasionally stopping to measure her smaller hands against his own.

If anyone had told her, even a week ago, that she would be lying next to Pryo and letting him play with her bare hands, she would have called them crazy.

It crossed her mind that she really ought to go to bed now. If she could just make her legs work. Before she lost the fight against sleep, one last thought had her scrunching her brow in confusion. "Johnny?"

His acknowledging grunt was even softer this time.

"You haven't told me to call you 'Pyro' even once."

He was quiet for so long, she wondered if he'd heard her. If she could work up any real desire for anything but sleep, she might consider repeating herself. Too bad she couldn't.

Rogue's eyes closed one final time, and she drifted along the edge of consciousness. She heard his response, but investing any actual thought into it was much less appealing than falling into her first real rest in weeks.

"So don't."

* * *

_So, so many thanks to those who reviewed the last chapter:_

_wild wolf free 17, Cestari, invisible-next, The Truth About Roses, M.J.L.S, Mrs. St. John Allerdyce_ (by the way, you'd better watch out going around with a name like that. You might have a fight on your hands;) ), _RedMagic, Mellowgold, xsuzyxninjax, zshp1411, Silver-Winged-Saiyajin, theshadowkat, **PsychoTherapy17**, Dama Jade, and Chica De Los Ojos Cafe_

_You all rule. I now order you to pat yourselves on the back and tell yourselves that you totally make the day of one dorky little fanfic writer in Georgia. Go ahead, do it. Ignore the people staring at you; they just don't understand how awesome you really are. Morons._

_Special big-time thanks to **PsychoTherapy,** my kick-ass beta. This chapter totally killed me, and without her assistance it is entirely likely I would still be staring at the computer moniter and mumbling inanely under my breath._


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

* * *

Rogue moistened her lips nervously, sparing a quick glance at the large clock gracing the mantle of the common room. It was official; she had been standing outside of the room for ten minutes, and still hadn't managed to gather enough courage to enter. From her position, safely ensconced in the shadows of the doorway, she was at the perfect angle to covertly observe Logan. He was lounging in a recliner in the far corner of the spacious room, eyes fixed moodily on the flames dancing in the nearby fireplace. Cigar in one hand, glass of what looked like scotch in the other, he was the very picture of Byronic misery. 

No doubt about it, the loss of Jean Grey had hit him hard.

So secure was she in her lurking abilities, Rogue was caught by complete surprise when Logan's voice echoed throughout the room.

"So," he said, almost conversationally, "you gonna stand out there all day or what?"

Rogue attempted to calm her heart, which had accelerated rapidly at the shock his unexpected acknowledgement inspired. In retrospect, she thought ruefully, she really should have predicted that Logan would have sensed her presence from the moment she approached the room—and several moments before that, no doubt.

Hesitantly, she crossed the floor towards him. The room was empty with the exception of the two of them, and the echo of her footsteps seemed unnaturally loud in the surrounding quiet. It only served to irritate her already strained nerves, and she found herself longing for a time, not so long ago, when this room had been perpetually filled with laughing students.

Nowadays, though, it was officially Logan's territory. He had apparently taken a liking to the room, along with the mansion's state-of-the-art gym and the more wooded areas of the grounds. The students had relinquished the areas willingly; more than happy to lose a few hangouts in exchange for avoiding Logan's wrath.

Rogue honestly couldn't say that she blamed them. She may love the guy, but even she admitted that he wasn't much fun to be around lately.

She reached her destination, perching almost timidly on the loveseat across from him. She tried in vain to suppress her apprehension, realizing that anxiety was pouring off of her in pathetically obvious waves, but it was a losing battle. Logan's wolfish eyes had followed her the whole way, causing her to nearly stumble over the carpet at least twice. She wasn't ready for this confrontation, not by a long shot. Rogue folded her hands in her lap, picking nervously at the soft cotton of her gloves. Why hadn't he said anything yet? He hadn't even acknowledged her since she sat down, instead focusing all of his attention on the glass held loosely in his right hand.

The minutes passed, the ticking of the clock playing hell on her nerves. Maybe he didn't know? He was awfully distracted lately, to say the least; maybe he wouldn't even catch onto her deception. It wasn't as if there were any reason for him to know…

Damn it, she always did this. Whenever she attempted to hide something from Logan, she projected guilt and paranoid discomfort to such an extent that any chance at secrecy was gone before she even had a chance to tell her first lie.

Finally, after a silence that seemed to last for ages, Logan looked up from his drink. One mocking eyebrow  
arched as he flared his nostrils meaningfully. "You think you're hiding something, Kid?"

Rogue blanched, her already pale skin going as white as the walls surrounding her, and then blossoming into a deep red flush that, she had no doubt, matched the bricks of the fireplace next to her—maybe even the flames themselves.

As a matter of fact, she _had_ thought she was hiding something. Silly of her to believe an hour long shower would be enough to fool the Wolverine.

Though there was little point, she averted her eyes, affecting ignorance. God, she was a horrible liar, and she absolutely hated lying to Logan… and not just because he could see right through her. Still..."What are you talking about? What would I be hiding?"

'What?' indeed. She had awoken around 10:30 this morning, absolutely horrified to realize that she was still in John's bed. What made the situation even worse was that sometime during the night she had lost her robe, leaving her clothed only in one of her characteristic short silken nightgowns.

She had adopted the skimpy garments out of some silly sense of rebellion--getting a kick out of flaunting her skin at night in bed, the only time that she was free to shed the heavy layers and gloves that swamped her by day. Now, with her powers gone, she continued to wear them. After all this time, she just couldn't get comfortable sleeping in anything else.

God, she had never regretted seeking comfort so much in her life.

Last night's gown was actually one of her favorites: a soft mint green—short and flattering, with a lace-covered bust line and a tendency to ride up even farther as she slept. Which it had. She had decided upon waking that she had never been so humiliated in her life. Of course, that statement had been updated abruptly when she had realized that the warm pillow pressed firmly against her back was most definitely not a pillow, and the arm encircling her waist was just as definitely not a remnant of whatever dream she may have been having. Rogue probably would have lain there in shock for another ten minutes, if John's hand—apparently waking before the rest of him—had not begun to trace ever-widening circles upon her belly.

In the space of a heartbeat, she had been up off of the bed and heading for the door at full speed. Truly, it was a miracle that she hadn't woken him—particularly considering that, in her enthusiasm to get the hell out of there, she had tripped and fallen more times than she wanted to count; the first time in her haste to get off the bed, and several times afterwards as she stumbled over the bedclothes she had apparently kicked off during the night.

After fleeing the room, robe draped haphazardly over her shoulders and one bunny slipper in hand—she had no idea where the other was, and absolutely no intention of sticking around to find out—she had stumbled back to the girls' dormitories through a side passage, thankfully enabling her to avoid the hallway passing through the male dorms, and straight into an hour long shower.

The shower had started out as an attempt to calm her racing nerves, but, as her mind gradually began to function properly, had quickly transformed into a method of shielding the nights activities from her frequently over-protective quasi-guardian. She had gone through half a bottle of body wash in the process.

Some fat lot of good it had done. Now she was out six bucks in soap, and her sinuses were killing her from the forceful odor of lavender and 'sunshine.'

What the hell had motivated her to face Logan today, when the much wiser option would have been to give him a wide berth for at least a week? That damned curious streak of hers, that was what. She wanted to know the whole story of John's release, and she obviously wasn't going to get it from him. What was it about the irritating little firestarter? Whenever he was around, her normally active mental capabilities—to say nothing of her sense of self-preservation—went right out the window.

Rogue steeled herself for the confrontation to come, certain that her practiced pouty lips and doe eyes wouldn't be enough to bail her out this time. Still, they couldn't hurt. She arranged her face into optimal trouble-avoidance position, and then raised teary, pleading eyes to meet what she was sure would be a heart-stopping glare.

But, when she looked up… it wasn't there. No more so than usual, anyway. Oh, Logan looked pissed alright. But he didn't look as though he were planning to sling her over his shoulder, and then lock her in her room while he went to rip to pieces the boy who had dared to defile her. That in itself was shocking. Logan may have been alright with her association with Bobby when she was untouchable, but, now that she was all normal and corruptible, things had taken a decidedly different turn.

The first time that Logan had caught her kissing Bobby, he had sent him on a five-mile run in the rain. But now he wasn't going to even blink at her sleeping in the same bed as the enemy? What the hell was going on in this place all of a sudden? Had the whole mansion gone crazy, and forgotten to send her a memo?

Her utter bemusement must have shown on her face, because Logan let out a sharp bark of laughter, running a hand through his wild hair and then extinguishing his cigar on his palm—one of his favorite 'look how tough and macho I am' moves that never failed to make Rogue's stomach churn. She winced, and he laughed again.

"God, Kid, if you could see your face right now…" flicking the remains of his cigar into the fireplace, he turned to face her. "Come on, you think we'd let that little jackass roam the halls without keeping tabs on him? I was sure you had more sense than that."

Now that she thought about it, it did seem rather ludicrous to imagine otherwise. She shook her head, still confused, and absolutely positive that she was not going to like where he was going with this.

Logan continued despite her lack of response. "That's why we stuck him on that hall. Xavier had the place covered with surveillance cameras. From what 'Ro tells me, he never did trust them ritzy assholes who came to stay here, no matter how much cash they put out." He appeared to be fighting back snickers, and losing, as he turned to face her more fully. "Hate to tell you this, Kid, but you got caught on camera. Nice nightgown, by the way. Went real nice with those little rabbits on your feet."

Holy God. She had thought her face was red before. "You… but you… Jesus Christ… You…" God, she couldn't even form a complete sentence. The humiliation was slowly engulfing her. She could feel the tips of her ears burning just as hotly as the fire off to her side, and it was all she could do not to run from the room and hide under her bed for a week. And, damn him, Logan kept on laughing at her. Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath and latched onto the first coherent thought she could muster. "Why'd you let me stay?"

He managed to control his guffaws at her expense—good thing, too, as she was becoming increasingly tempted to test out that healing factor of his against one of the brass fire-pokers on her far right. He schooled his face into a more serious expression, though laughter still lingered in the back of his eyes. Horrified as she was, she couldn't help but be a tiny bit glad of that. She had been able to make him smile precious few times in the four months since Alcatraz. If he had to do so at her expense, she supposed that she could live with it. Though she sure as hell didn't have to like it.

"Listen, Kid," he said, all traces of humor thankfully gone from his voice. "I told you once that I ain't your father. When the guard manning those cameras called me, you can bet your ass I came close to storming the place and dragging you out by that striped hair of yours. I stood outside the door all night, just waiting and listening for that little dickhead to try something."

She couldn't help but smile a bit, some of the tightness fading from her chest. What he was saying was sweet, in a twisted sort of way, and he just looked so adorably disappointed that he hadn't gotten to slice into John's entrails.

"Point is, you ain't a kid no more. Doesn't mean I'm not going to watch that little bastard like a hawk, but it does meant that I can't force you to stay away from him. Hell, I've known this was coming since the day we brought him back. God knows you ain't stopped badgering me with questions about him since."

Rogue went to protest, and he held up a hand dismissively—only further stirring her resentment.

"Don't bother denying it, Marie. If I'd have let you, you would have been sneaking around security to see him the very first week. Hell, I'm amazed I managed to keep you away this long."

To tell the truth, she couldn't really deny it. Only her respect for Logan, to say nothing of her fear of disappointing him further, had kept her from trying to get a peak at John long before now. Given half a chance it would have been _her_ seeking John out, as opposed to the reverse. She opened her mouth, then closed it again. Too much had been thrown at her at once, and she had no idea what to say.

She was angry, and confused, and more than a little hurt. Her time with John had been personal, and, though she could understand the reasoning behind monitoring their interaction, it was a little difficult to maintain objectivity in the face of such blatant invasion of her privacy. The fact that it had been Logan only added insult to injury, and she was hard-pressed to combat the feelings of betrayal rising inside of her. He was the closest thing that she had to any sort of family, and now he was snickering at her humiliation—something that stung more deeply than she cared to admit. He was supposed to take care of her, damn it, and back her up when she was in a situation she couldn't handle. Not laugh at her.

She felt vaguely like she had been tossed out into the cold—not a child anymore, he had said, so none of his concern. There was no logical basis for her hurt, and on some level she realized it. But the conflicting feelings bubbling inside of her were too difficult to deal with right now, and anger, justified or not, was a much easier option.

"Logan, this just doesn't make sense. Any of it. How is it that last month when you caught me kissing Bobby in the garden you hosed us down with a water hose, and now I'm suddenly old enough to spend the night with Pyro?"

He winced, and she went on, distantly aware that the volume of her voice was steadily increasing. A floodgate of emotion had been released; all of the anger and frustration that she had been suppressing for the last four months was pouring out of her uncontrollably, and with no sign of restraint. "And, more importantly, what are you doing even letting him loose? With nothing but an _ankle sensor_, of all things? Are you stupid, or just so full of your own capabilities that you don't think he could be a threat while you're around?" _Jesus, she didn't mean that… Why the hell couldn't she make her mouth stop moving?_ "Logan, I get that you're having a tough time right now, but are you out of your fucking mind?"

_That_ stopped her, all right. It was all she could do not to clasp her hands to her mouth. She wanted to take back the words, but her pride kept her sitting upright, shoulders drawn back as tears of remorse lodged in her throat.

"Watch your fuckin' mouth," Logan grated, brows drawing together as he stared her down. Finally her ire faded completely, and she looked away. She had never talked to him like that before. He was the only one that had never betrayed her on any level—the only one that she could truly say she trusted implicitly—and she had never, _never_ talked to him that way before. Rogue felt tears of shame gather in the corners of her eyes, and focused all of her attention on not blinking. If she just didn't blink, the tears wouldn't fall. They would dry on her lids, and he'd never see them. God, it was hard not to blink. Logan wasn't talking, and she wasn't talking, and it was so oppressively, horribly quiet, and it was so hard not to blink.

Though she refused to look at him, she was aware of Logan moving as he came over to sit next to her on the couch. He raised a bare hand to her cheek, gently turning her unwilling face to his. He let out a curse at the sight of her tears, one calloused hand staying on her cheek as his free arm went to draw her against his chest. "It's okay, Marie. Just take it easy, alright?"

Rogue nodded, sobs catching in her throat as she pressed her face hard into the soft leather of his jacket. Relief suffused her at the evidence of his forgiveness, even as his understanding made her want to cry harder. He smelled so good; like smoke and liquor and clean air, and it was so familiar and comforting that she felt the pressure that had been steadily rising inside of her for so, so long finally begin to ease. Logan might not be her father, but he was the closest thing she had to it, and, illogical as it was, being held by him made her feel like everything was finally going to be all right.

She finally managed to get a grip on herself, stopping the tears before that had a chance to advance into full-blown bawling, and pulled away reluctantly. "I'm sorry—" she started, and he interrupted her with a firm, but gentle, hand on her shoulder.

"Don't. You ain't got no reason to be sorry." His hand once again found its way to her face, a roughened, calloused thumb briefly tracing the tear tracks on her cheek, before he wrapped an awkward arm around her shoulders. She leaned into his side, and they just sat like that for a while in companionable silence. It was a comfort that she hadn't had in a very long while, and she hadn't even realized until now just how much she had missed it. It was almost disappointing when he began to speak again.

"I'm the one who ought to be apologizing, Kid."

She started to protest, and he shook his head. "No, it's true. I promised you once that I'd take care of you, and I've been too busy thinking about myself to even notice how much you've been hurting."

She didn't really know what to say to that, but she was willing to try if he was.

"No, Logan. You deserve to be selfish. You've been through a hell of a lot more than I have. Any problems that I have, I've made them myself. And the ones that I didn't make myself, I just added to." She rested her head against his arm, breathing in the smell of faded leather. "God, Logan. It's just… everything's so fucked up, isn't it?"

He didn't scold her this time, instead laughing softly. Except that it wasn't really a laugh—or what a laugh was meant to be, anyway. "Yeah, Kid. You nailed it, all right."

Several moments passed, and then she lifted her head to look at him. "Logan, believe me when I say that I am honestly not questioning your judgment, but… I just don't understand why you let John go." Rethinking her words almost immediately, she rushed to add, "I mean, don't get me wrong, I'm _glad_ you did. It's just… I don't get it. Besides the fact that it's not like you at all, it just doesn't make sense to let him run loose around the mansion after everything that's happened."

Logan closed his eyes, and she was suddenly terrified that she had ruined their reconciliation by broaching the subject too soon. He must have felt her tense up, because he tightened his arm around her shoulders comfortingly. Taking his time, obviously picking each word with great care, he answered her. "Listen, Marie. I know what its like to be where that kid's been. It ain't fun."

Rogue nodded. She might not have first hand knowledge, but she definitely knew what he was getting at.

"So," he continued after a pause. "We let him out, we let him run around a bit... If he plays nice, it really doesn't make a difference one way or another. If he doesn't…" Logan glanced at her mischievously before extending the arm furthest from her and popping his claws. "I get to have a little fun."

Rogue couldn't bring herself to laugh at his joke; there was too much truth behind it. Instead, she turned to face him with a disapproving look. "I really don't find that the least bit amusing, Logan."

He just grinned unrepentantly.

* * *

About an hour later, Rogue and Logan were still lounging together on the sofa in companionable silence, enjoying the sounds of wood periodically crackling in the fireplace. It was the most relaxed and at peace that Rogue had felt in a very long time. 

As a matter of fact, the only thing that had come remotely close had been last night, with John. She still couldn't quite believe that she had gotten a full night of sleep, nightmare free—something so rare as to broach upon miracle status. Despite the utter humiliation of the position she had awoken in, the refreshing effect the night had had upon her almost made it all worthwhile. She had all but forgotten the strange buzz that followed a decent rest; she honestly couldn't believe just how fantastic she was feeling at the moment.

Of course, she of all people knew that nothing good could last forever.

Rogue felt her wonderful mood begin to dissipate when, as if summoned by her thoughts, John suddenly rounded the hallway. He was looking about in apparent irritation, one hand in the pocket of his sweatpants—no doubt clenching his lighter.

Then he caught sight of her through the doorway of the common room.

Color rose sharply in her cheeks, and she found herself hoping desperately that he had slept just as well as she had, and that he hadn't been awake to witness her wardrobe malfunction. Considering the irritating smirk currently etched upon his face, she very much doubted it.

Her position facing the entrance allowed Rogue a perfect vantage point to observe John drawing nearer, dressed in either the same clothing as he had worn the night before or something very similar. His eyes remained locked upon hers as he approached, and she steeled herself for the embarrassing comment that he was so obviously about to throw at her.

Then, something strange happened. As John finally reached the doorway, his line of vision expanding to include the entirety of the room, all traces of smug self-satisfaction abruptly vanished. The reflection of something very hard and unsettling flashed through his eyes. It was so intense, Rogue actually felt herself shiver slightly.

She rose uncertainly from her position, still leaning comfortably against Logan's side with his arm wrapped snugly around her shoulders. What on earth had she done wrong? Behind her, she could hear Logan snickering under his breath, and wondered just what the hell was so funny.

Then John took a breath, and it was just as if nothing had happened.

Rogue glanced at Logan, and he waved her away dismissively. "Go on. I've got stuff to do, anyway." He gestured towards the half empty bottle resting beneath a nearby coffee table, and she rolled her eyes, wondering how she had missed it. On the plus side, she had been right; it _was_ scotch.

She hesitantly approached John, who, sparing a quick glare at the back of Logan's head, grabbed her by a gloved hand and led her into the farthest corner of the room. She could have told him it wouldn't do any good—twenty feet was hardly enough distance to isolate oneself from Wolverine's advanced hearing skills—but she somehow doubted that he would care. He pushed her down onto one of the many small couches littering the room—it was, after all, designated for social interaction—and then sat beside her, not really on top of her, but definitely too close for her comfort.

"Why'd you run out this morning?" His eyes were snapping blue fire at her, and Rogue felt her hackles rise. Typical John. If there was one thing that she didn't want to talk about, he would latch onto it right away, and with all the tenacity of a rampant bulldog.

"I didn't run out," she muttered through gritted teeth, glancing meaningfully behind her to where Logan sat, not even pretending not to listen. "I woke up, and I left."

John, being the rude bastard that he was, sneered mockingly at her response. "Maybe I'm missing something, but isn't that the exact definition of 'running out'?"

She just huffed her irritation, attempting to scoot back. She needed to put some distance between them. John was overpowering enough from a distance. At this proximity, he was so unsettling that he actually affected her ability to formulate any sort of coherent response. Predictably, he followed her inch for inch—actually ending up a bit closer than they had started out. And that was way, way too close.

His eyes were focused unflinchingly upon her, and the attention was making her extremely nervous. The fact that he was playing with that damned lighter again did not help matters in the slightest. "So, you and the wolf-man looked pretty damn chummy when I came in. I didn't interrupt anything, did I?"

The way he said it, she just knew he was intimating he had interrupted something a lot less innocent than mere conversation. She shoved him back a bit, both angry and desperately in need of a little breathing room. He really was sitting entirely too close to her.

"Please don't be anymore of an idiot that you can help, John."

He flicked the lighter on, then gazed steadily at the tiny flare it created. Gesturing towards her face, he stared all too intently at the flames reflected in her eyes. She wished that he would stop; when he looked at her like that, she got the distinct impression that he saw altogether too much for her comfort. John snapped the lighter shut abruptly, the soft click loud in the practically empty room. "He make you cry?"

Damn him, she couldn't help but smile at his level of perception even as she wanted to smack him for it. "Why?" she asked, brow rising inquiringly as she attempted to hide her slight amusement. "You gonna beat him up for me?"

The corners of his lips twitched almost imperceptibly. "Maybe. Did he?"

There really wasn't any point in hiding it. The jerk seemed to know everything anyway. Rogue just sighed, relaxing against the back of the couch. "Only because of you."

She promptly sat back up, glaring at John as it occurred to her that her fight with Logan really could be blamed on him, in a very loose, unfair sort of way. She narrowed her eyes, pinning him with a resentful look as she clarified her earlier statement. " We got in a fight, which we've never done before, and which we never _would have_ done if it weren't for you."

"Why?" John grinned suddenly, clearly pleased with himself. He leaned forward, once again invading her personal space. "You didn't tell him that we slept together, did you?"

Rogue gasped. It felt as though every drop of blood in her body was rising to her cheeks. She planted both hands flat against his chest, and shoved him with all her might. The result was somewhat less than satisfying; he moved back an inch, if that. Her teeth came together in a deep grind. "Shut up, you know that he can hear us!" she whisper-shouted, although she doubted that he could actually hear her over the volume of his own self-satisfied sniggering. Not that whispering helped in the slightest. She could hear Logan chortling in the background, and silently vowed to throw an extremely large object at his head sometime in the very near future. "And we did _not_ sleep together."

"The hell we didn't." John eventually managed to retort, still slightly out of breath from his obnoxious laughter at her expense. "You know, you really do have your definitions mixed up today."

Rogue just glared at him. God, why had she ever missed this arrogant, irritating, despicable excuse for a human being? "Hey John? Shut the hell up."

He shrugged in an extremely exaggerated manner, raising his hands in a position of mock-surrender. God, did she ever wish he would wipe that stupid smirk off his face. Or better yet, she could do it for him.

For a few blissful moments he actually kept his mouth shut, as she had asked. It was incredible, she reflected, but she never appreciated the value a good silence so much as after she'd been forced to listen to John shoot off his mouth for an extended period of time. She told herself to enjoy it while it lasted--which, with John, was never very long.

Of course, she was right.

John leaned in as if to tell her a secret, his lips inches from her ear. "You know," he said conversationally, voice pitched very low--for her hearing alone. "I really dig your choice in nightgowns."

Rogue felt the air escaping her lungs in a hiss as her face was, once again, suffused with red. Of course, it was too much to ask that he could have slept through the removal of her robe. "You. slimy. little. pervert!" she gritted out, indignation coating her words. She really, really wished she had one of those fire pokers near her right about now. John was laughing at her again, and she stood up, prepared to storm away in a fit of outrage. He caught her hand, tugging her back, and she felt her backside hit the couch hard. His arm wasn't technically around her, but it was resting on the couch behind her. Too close. Way, way too close.

"Hey," he finally managed, exhausting himself of laughter. "You can't blame me. There I am, sleeping all innocent-like" she snorted hard at that, "and all of a sudden you start thrashing around, moaning and groaning about how hot you're getting. Next thing I know you're tearing your clothes off."

Rogue gasped at the indignity of it all. "I did _not_ 'tear my clothes off'! It was a robe, damn it! It's not like I tried to take my nightgown off."

John just grinned, eyebrow arching salaciously. "And just how do you know that? You were asleep, after all." She stammered indignantly, and he leaned back against the arm of the couch, crossing both arms in front of him. "Frankly, I was appalled."

Rogue just shook her head, her hands coming up to cover her cheeks. Even through the thin cotton, they were hot to the touch. God, this was definitely one of those times that she really wished someone would come along and murder him.

And, just because fate had an absurdly malicious sense of humor, Bobby Drake chose that exact moment to walk through the door.

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Many, many thanks to those who reviewed last chapter: 

_RedMagic, zshp1411, Chica De Los Ojos Café, Cara, Robin Steele, chattypandagurl, Cestari, The Truth About Roses, MJLS, hollyparker, and SupportSeverusSnape._

You are all fantastic, and I really appreciate you taking the time to tell me what you think. Several of you requested lots of Logan in this chapter, so I hope I didn't disappoint too badly on that count.

Special thanks to **PsychoTherapy** for betaing, as always!


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

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When she was thirteen years old, Rogue had been in her first car wreck. She'd been in the passenger seat of her father's truck, arguing with him about something or another. His attention had been on her, not the road, and he'd never seen the deer coming. She had, though—it had darted out in front of them, and then just stopped. Eyes fixed on the oncoming vehicle, muscles tensed. She'd never entirely understood just _why_ the animal had chosen to freeze up in the middle of the road—just waiting to get flattened—instead of turning tail and running in the other direction.

As she watched Bobby drawing closer and closer, it all suddenly made perfect sense.

John, for all of his oh-so-impressive Brotherhood training—which, quite frankly, she was beginning to question—had yet to catch onto the situation, apparently mistaking her sudden silence for just another display of irritation. As a matter of fact, both boys remained blissfully ignorant of the other's presence. John's back faced the entryway, preventing recognition.

For a brief, shining moment, Rogue actually entertained the hope that Bobby might simply pass them by, none the wiser. As if fate would be that kind to her. Never mind the fact that Bobby hadn't even looked her in the eye in four days. Naturally, her boyfriend would pick this time of all possible times to finally acknowledge her existence.

At last catching on to the fact that, for once, he was not the source of her discomfort, John turned around. It honestly seemed as though it was happening in slow motion. She watched, amazed, as a devious grin spread across his face. Though, really, she wasn't sure if she could label it as a grin. She had the distinct impression of a shark that had just laid eyes on a nice, juicy surfer.

Finally regaining her ability to move, Rogue stood. She hurriedly placed herself solidly between the two boys. Bobby was staring at John, mouth slightly agape. He seemed to inspire that effect in people fairly often.

"Bobby!" she cried, injecting as much pleasure into her voice as possible—vaguely aware that she sounded like she belonged in a cut-rate infomercial. "Look who's here!"

He didn't speak, though his gaze did swing to her at last. His mouth was still hanging open, and if he weren't such a handsome boy Rogue thought that she might be reminded of a carp.

She maintained a bright, tooth-paste commercial smile. "That's right! It's John!"

Dead silence. John took a break from staring Bobby down, and the corners of his eyes crinkled slightly as he shot her a look that clearly intimated he was questioning her sanity.

She gulped. "You—you remember John, right? Bobby?"

He nodded, finally closing his mouth. "Yes Rogue. I remember John."

"Aww, isn't that sweet?" John intoned. Though the comment was addressed to Rogue, his hard gaze never left the boy in front of him. "He remembers me." He stood abruptly, all teasing vanished. "Guess what? I remember you too."

It was then that he started forward, pushing Rogue aside—not gently, but no harder than was needed.

She resisted, attempting to follow him. Unfortunately, her route took her past Logan. He grabbed her arm, pulling her over to stand with him near the fireplace. She would have protested, but he silenced her with a dismissive gesture.

"Don't. It was bound to happen sooner or later—it's better to let 'em get it out of the way now. In the meantime, you'd best stay over here and out of the way. This could get rough."

She tried to shake him off, but there was no arguing with adamantium.

Rogue watched in dismay as John moved towards Bobby. His entire demeanor had changed. Gone was the boy who had teased her about her nightgown only minutes before. He seemed threatening. Dangerous. Before, she had only seen shadows of this facet of his personality. The most glaring example being just before he'd left, in the face-off with the cops at Bobby's house.

But, there was more to it than that. The change was evident in the way he moved, and the confidence in his stride. She realized that she was finally seeing Pyro—or the Pyro that the Brotherhood had crafted. He advanced upon her boyfriend purposefully, each step communicating thinly veiled menace. Finally, he stood before Bobby—posture stiff, challenging sneer firmly in place.

Rogue glanced nervously between the two before leveling a pleading look at Logan. She just _knew_ that something bad was about to happen. These weren't the two boys who had faced off countless times before—many times in this very room. Bobby was older now; stronger than ever before. He was still officially categorized as a student, but had been taking a fairly active role on the X-Team of late. And John...Well, she didn't even want to go there.

Logan ignored her entreating gaze, if he noticed it at all. All of his attention was focused upon the two young men before him, though he still made no move to intervene.

Bobby was the first to speak. "I'd heard you were back. But I never figured they'd be stupid enough to let you out of your cage."

Rogue's eyes widened slightly, and she could feel Logan tense up next to her. What on earth had motivated Bobby to say something like that in front of him? Clearly, his desire to intimidate John was more intense than his own sense of self-preservation.

John was observing him, not even attempting to conceal his distaste. "Mighty brave words coming from a glorified popsicle. Glad to see you back to your original color. I'll let you in on a little secret, Iceman; blue ain't exactly a good look for you."

Bobby snorted dismissively. "I'm surprised you even remember that far back. As hard as I hit you, by all rights you should have forgotten everything, up to and including my face."

"If only." His eyes were flashing, and he moved forward. Rogue drew in a harsh breath, and John halted as his eyes snapped back to her. His lips curved upwards as he returned his sardonic gaze to the boy in front of him. "But, hey, maybe I spoke too soon about the ice wearing off? Rogue here told me you were having some..." He allowed his gaze to drift lazily up and down Bobby's torso. "'Relationship issues'."

Bobby's jaw dropped as he turned to face her. For the first time since he'd come in, his full attention was focused upon her. She gasped, finally managing to shake free of Logan's grip, in only momentarily. "Damn it, John, I never said anything like that!"

He snorted, eyes widening in mock innocence. "Sure you did, Rogue. Don't you remember? Last night? In my bedroom?" His insinuation was clear, and Bobby's expression settled somewhere between amazement and wounded dismay.

Beside her, Logan shifted. She could practically hear the wheels in his head turning. To defend her honor, or to enjoy the dig at Bobby's expense? That earlier comment hadn't exactly endeared the boy to him. But Bobby didn't give him time to make up his mind.

"Rogue...tell me he's lying." The doubt in his voice was clear, and all of the resentment and anger that she had been harboring towards John did an abrupt turnaround. She surveyed her boyfriend with disgust.

"As a matter of fact, he isn't. But it's not the way you're thinking." She could feel the fury rising steadily inside of her and knew that, as her excitement grew, blood was steadily rising to her face. "But, why are you even bothering to ask me, Bobby? From the look on your face, you've already made up your mind about the situation."

Bobby shook his head. "Come on, Rogue, don't make this about us—"

"And why shouldn't I," she interrupted lividly, "when you automatically assume I'm sleeping with the enemy?"

"Aren't you?" John contributed helpfully, and she sent him a heated glare. "_You_ just stay out of this. You've done enough."

"Now Marie..." Logan intercepted, and she dismissed him easily, shaking off his grip as she moved to stand in directly in front of her boyfriend. John was in her way, and she shoved him aside—and none-too-gently, at that.

"Bobby," she growled, raising one gloved finger to poke sharply against his chest. "Would you like to explain to me exactly _why_ you'd assume something like that, without even bothering to check with me?" He made to respond, and she interrupted him with another harsh jab. "No! You don't get to explain yourself. You know why? Because there _is_ no explanation. There is no possible way for you to explain why you would automatically believe some _stupid_ comment by John, of all people—"

Off to the side, John made to protest. Rogue leveled him with a quelling look. "You shut up!" before returning her attention to Bobby. "A stupid comment, clearly designed to get under your skin. Unless, just maybe..." She fixed the full power of her gaze upon him. Partially for effect—but also because she didn't want to miss his reaction to her next comment. "Unless maybe you're projecting your own guilt onto me?"

Bobby blanched, and then abruptly stepped back. He was looking everywhere but at her. "I don't know what you mean."

"Oh, don't you?" she intoned, voice lowering dangerously. "I've got two words for you, Bobby: Kitty. Pryde."

His silence was answer enough, and any doubt that she'd managed to cling to vanished in an instant.

Next to her, John began to laugh. "Wait a minute... Kitty Pryde?" She turned her head to glare at him, but it had no visible effect. He continued to snicker. "You've got to be kidding me. She's the skinny girl, right? With the messy hair?"

Bobby's head snapped up. "Don't talk about her like that."

Rogue felt her heart settle in her tennis shoes. The inconsiderate bastard. He could at least wait until she was out of the room to defend his new love's honor.

"So, I'm right then." John shook his head, mirth still evident in his voice. "Jesus Christ, Drake, I knew you were stupid, but... that fucking mouse? Over her?" he gestured in Rogue's general vicinity. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

Bobby advanced upon him, this time not settling for an exchange of insults. His hands were icing over even as he reached for John, and he gripped the thinner boy by the collar. "Didn't you hear me the first time? Don't you _ever_ talk about her like that again!"

John pushed him away easily, latching onto one frosty hand and spinning him into a headlock. Bobby managed to break free, shoving an elbow back into John's stomach and only just barely managing to keep upright as he used the momentum to put some distance between them. The two boys stood facing each other, both breathing heavily from the exchange.

After a few moments of continued inactivity, John smirked. "That all you got, Iceboy? If that's the best you can do, I'm starting to think I got in a few good hits at Alcatraz without even noticing it. I'm sure I must have gotten a shot at your head or your eyes—even an iced dick isn't explanation enough for running around with Little Miss Moppet."

The dig had its intended effect. Bobby charged him, and John evaded the attack easily. He shoved Rogue in the direction of Logan, who immediately pushed her to the side and out of the way of the rapidly developing fistfight. Both boys managed a fairly even exchange of hits, and the fight escalated from there.

"Logan, you've got to do something before they kill each other," Rogue gasped a few minutes later. She ducked as an end table came hurtling towards them. The furniture was taking a severe beating, as the boys alternated between crashing into it and using the lighter pieces for artillery. This particular piece had been thrown at Bobby, who had managed to dodge it just in time to avoid a certain concussion.

"You just stay out of the way," Logan advised. He pushed her into a kneeling position, shielded behind an armchair. "You don't understand men—I do. The sooner they get this out of their system, the better."

"'The better' for whom, exactly? Cause it sure as hell isn't the common room!" John was abruptly thrown against a large antique curio, and Rogue winced as the glass casing shattered—several pieces undoubtedly lodging themselves into his back. He was on his feet in an instant, tackling Bobby to the ground and laying into him with both fists. She actually _saw_ Bobby's nose break, blood spattering across the hardwood floor. "I think that you _want_ them to kill each other!"

Logan grinned.

Damn it all, Rogue realized with dawning outrage; he was actually enjoying this! She told him as much, and he chuckled guiltily. "I don't suppose you'd be willing to bet twenty bucks against the skinny kid? He's kinda scrawny, but he fights dirtier."

Her response was a hard whack against the back of his head, and Logan winced. "Didn't think so."

"That does it, Logan! Either you stop this, or I will."

Logan shook his head. "No need, kid. They're winding down on their own."

Rogue turned abruptly, and felt the hairs on the back of her neck rise in warning at the sight that greeted her. Logan may _think_ that things were winding down, but, man or not, he didn't understand John or Bobby the way that she did. Fistfights had happened often enough, even when they were friends. But when the verbal clashes got underway...that was when you really had to watch out.

The two were in an apparent face-off at the moment—John on one side of the room, Bobby on the other. Each was standing, though neither was exceptionally steady on his feet. Bobby's wounded nose and mouth were practically gushing, and he was favoring his left leg. John...God, John was a mess. Her heart jumped in alarmed protest as she took in his rapidly swelling left eye and the blood blossoming across his gray hooded sweatshirt—now torn in various places, and very much the worse for wear. She wasn't worried about Bobby; he would mend easily enough with a few bandages. But John had had absolutely no business getting into a fight in his already weakened state.

"Tough luck, Iceman," he was saying, and she snapped to attention. She didn't care what Logan said; she wanted to be ready to intervene if necessary. "Bet you'll have trouble kissing your little lover-girl with that torn lip."

"You shut your damned mouth, Allerdyce, before I shut it for you."

John continued as if he hadn't spoken, eyes—or _eye_, rather—dancing gleefully. "Then again, I guess she'll just have to deal with it. Beggars can't be choosers, after all."

"I'll kill you where you stand, Pyro!" Bobby growled, and made to leap at him. His wounded leg tripped him up, and he actually ended up on the floor. The look on his face as he struggled upright had Rogue starting forward, prepared to run interference. Unfortunately, she had waited too long. "You're a fucking animal. You deserved everything you got at that prison camp, and more." His hands iced over, and the frosted glow extended as he gathered the ice towards him—ready to let it loose at any moment.

John's face had paled at his comment. Rogue watched with dismay as the color rapidly returned to him, and he clenched his fists tightly. Absolute fury was evident in the set of his jaw. She felt rather than saw the fire jumping madly in the fireplace behind her, and abruptly cried out, dodging to the side as the heat assailed her.

"Enough!"

Logan's growled command was enough to halt the proceedings, and each resident of the room turned to look at him as he started forward. "You—Sparky," he demanded. "Get your ass over here."

John hesitated, and Logan snarled. "I said get your stupid ass over here!"

He came towards them, settling a few feet in front of Logan. Rogue was amazed at his easy acquiescence, until she observed the looks passing between the two. There was something going on here, beneath the surface.

"What was our deal, boy?" Logan demanded hotly. "Do I need to remind you? You keep yourself out of trouble, or you're back in your cage."

John nodded slowly.

"If I catch you out of line one more time—and I mean even _once_, I'll have your ass squeezed into a cell so small you won't be able to blink. You'll be fucking _dreaming_ of Xavier's 'detention center', you get me?"

John gritted his teeth—clearly this subordinate role went against his very nature. But, once again, he nodded.

"Good. Now, Marie, you take this idiot up to his room. I've got a few things to say to Drake here, and I don't need a damned audience."

She started forward, but before she could get very far Logan had grabbed her arm. She looked at him questioningly, and he pulled her closer, whispering a few quick words into her ear. Despite the gravity of the circumstances, she smiled. Then—walking past Bobby with an upturned nose and a look of the gravest disdain possible—she made for the door, trusting John to follow.

With Logan at his back, it wasn't as though he had much of an option.

_

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_

_Please excuse the slight delay—final exams at my college made it sort of difficult to concentrate on writing anything with an actual plot for a while. I have posted two shorter Rogue/Pyro stories, which you can find on my author profile. They are titled 'Unbroken' and 'How to Cure the Common Cold (Without Really Trying)'. If you haven't seen them, please, take a look:) _

_As always, thanks so much to my reviewers: **RedMagic, Chica De Los Ojos Café, zshp1411, The Truth About Roses, Cestari, Evil Lady X, redsmileyface, SupportSeverusSnape, ingridmr, chattypandagurl, Corporal Scarlett, Aliesha, Dama Jade, Carly, Morbid Seraph, Lucia, Personage, and Levanna!**_

_You are all very much appreciated—really, you have no idea. Thank you so much for your past and continued comments. _

_Also, thanks so much to **PsychoTherapy**, the awesomest beta in the whole world;)_

_Please let me know what you think of the chapter! All comments and criticisms are welcome, and very much appreciated._


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

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**

"You didn't have to follow me all the way up here, you know. You're not my fucking jailor."

Rogue just sighed, closing the door softly behind them. John hadn't spoken to her once since they had left Bobby and Logan in the shambles of the Common Room. It just figured that his first words to her would be rude as hell.

"No, I'm not. But Logan is, and he told me to bring you up here. So shut up and sit down."

As she spoke, she was crossing the room towards John's bathroom—but not before taking the time to disable the visual recording devices positioned over the dresser and off to the side of the chest-of-drawers. Logan really was the best guy in the world, for all of his grumbling and growling. She doubtless would have found the tiny cameras for herself, knowing that they were in the room somewhere. But he had saved her a lot of time by letting her know their exact locations.

Not hearing a response, she began to sift through the compact linen closet. She was so preoccupied with her task that she didn't become aware of John's presence until she felt his hand on her wrist, spinning her around. The angry retort on her lips died at his furious expression.

"You've got some nerve, ordering me around like that," he bit out. His hand tightened, painfully, pressing her back against the wall. "Do you even know who I am now? Do you know the things that I've done, while you've been prancing around this pathetic little school like a fucking sheep, wasting your abilities on goddamn math and science classes?" He leaned closer, eyes narrowing, and Rogue could feel his breath on her face. "I'm not going to let some ignorant little traitor tell me what to do."

She closed her eyes, clamping down hard on the fury rising inside of her. Then she opened them, and, sending a disdainful glare in his direction, shook off his grip. The closet door was still open, and, this time giving little attention to color or size, she pulled out a handful of towels and shoved them against John's chest. He automatically took hold of them before they could fall to the floor.

"Go lie down on the bed, on your stomach," she said, tone deceptively tranquil. "I still need to get a few things."

John just looked at her for a moment, mouth agape. Then he flung the towels against the wall, lips curling back into a fierce sneer. "Did you hear anything I just said?"

Rogue ignored him, pushing past him to open the medicine cabinet. "Yeah, I heard you—you're still all rough and tough, and you're taking the fact that Logan treated you like a child out on me. Was that just about all of it, or did I miss something?" She glanced over her shoulder, brown eyes narrowing. "Now, did you hear me? Take your ass into the bedroom. You're getting in my way."

His reflection in the mirror scowled hotly at her, and then he spun around. The door slammed behind him, causing half of the items in the cupboard to immediately fall into the sink. Rogue cursed under her breath, bemoaning the fact that half of the cotton balls she had been planning to make use of had escaped the bag, becoming instantly unusable. Unless, of course, she wanted to give John an infection.

Then again...

God, he was such a fucking prick. Standing there, sneering down at her… it had been all she could do not to throw a punch at his arrogant jaw. The only thing holding her back had been the fact that it just would have given her one more bruise to see to.

Using a towel as a make-shift bag, Rogue gathered her supplies together. The medicine cabinet was surprisingly well-equipped, and she was able to find just about everything she needed. It was a big relief; she had been afraid that she would have to return to her room for a few things. Where she would most definitely run into her roommate.

At the moment, Kitty was the last possible person she wanted to see.

Thinking of Kitty and Bobby only intensified her anger—still flying high from John's earlier comments—and Rogue found that she was almost thankful for it. It just made it that much easier to leave the bathroom and face him. Supplies in hand and spare towels balanced on her hip, she pushed the door open.

Honestly, she had half expected to find him gone. He was still there, though, standing at the window with his back to her. The patches of blood staining his shirt cooled her temper a bit, reminding her of why she was still there. Why she hadn't stormed out the moment he opened his big mouth.

"I told you to lie down."

He didn't answer—didn't even look up.

Frankly, it was a better response than she had expected.

Rogue carefully laid out the supplies on the nightstand, and then began to line the bed with several of the loose towels she had carried under her arm. "Really," she commented over her shoulder, just because she knew it would irritate him, "it's just as well that you didn't. You're going to bleed like crazy when I dig that glass out."

He snorted disdainfully, and she considered telling him that he was reminding her of a sullen adolescent. Instead, she chose to ignore him. "It's a good thing that I don't mind the sight of blood, you know? Otherwise, I'd probably end up on the floor."

There was no response at all this time, and she continued to prepare the bed. She'd found a set of tweezers in the cabinet, and it only took a moment to sterilize them with rubbing alcohol.

Finally, there was nothing left for her to do.

_Damn it. _

Rogue took a deep breath. "John, I need you to come over here now. I'm ready."

He cast a disbelieving look over his shoulder, and then turned back without a word.

She sighed, crossing the room to stand beside him. The view out the window was rather disheartening; it was raining like crazy, and the sky was much darker than it had any right to be at this time in the afternoon. The strange weather was something that she had become accustomed to recently, though, and she couldn't quite bring herself to be irritated by it. Considering the loss of Dr. Grey, Ms. Munroe had more than enough reason to project.

Tiring of the dismal view, Rogue turned her attention back to the situation at hand. "John," she said softly. "Come on. You know that you can't leave that glass in your back, and you can't just go to the Med Bay later. There's..." she swallowed. "There's nobody down there. So I'm pretty much your only option."

His only sign of acknowledgement was a loose shrug. The gesture clearly put pressure on all of the wrong places; despite his best efforts, he was unable to restrain a grimace.

Rogue lay a gentle hand on his arm, and was encouraged when he didn't push her away. "Please John. Let me help you."

He finally looked at her, and she was hard-pressed to interpret his enigmatic expression. Then he nodded abruptly, and she smiled. "Great. Just take your shirt off, and it'll be over before you know it."

"Turn around."

That definitely caught her by surprise—it was just about the last thing she'd expected him to say. "Since when are you shy, Johnny?"

He just scowled at her. "Turn around, or get the hell out."

She wrinkled her brow—still vaguely perplexed—but turned around nonetheless. The sound of rustling clothing let her know that John was in the process of removing his shirt, and she tapped her foot impatiently. The bed squeaked slightly, and she turned. "All done?"

"Like it matters. You're already looking."

Rogue just rolled her eyes. "Shut up, John." She crossed the room, lingering by the nightstand just long enough to remove her dark cotton gloves. The fabric caught on a silver banded ring on her left hand, and she stared at it for a long moment.

A gift from Bobby.

She slipped it from her finger, tucking it into her pocket to deal with later. Maybe she'd do something grandiose and dramatic, like throw it into the lake. Or maybe she'd even go with petty and childish—leave it on Kitty's nightstand or something.

Or, more likely, she'd just put it in an envelope and leave it in Bobby's mail-slot.

Sometimes she really wished that she could be more of a bitch. It would definitely be more gratifying; she had no doubt of that.

But, no. Not her. Never her. She would just give a sad little smile, find a way to justify Bobby and Kitty's actions, and give them her blessings. That was who she was, wasn't it? The good little girl who always wore her seatbelt. Always budgeted her chocolate. Said 'please' and 'thank you', and never, ever placed her elbows on the dinner table.

Her powers, for all that she had hated them, had been the only thing that really set her apart. And now... her bare fingers told the story. She was nothing.

"So, are you going to get this done or what?"

Rogue startled violently, shooting a dirty look at him. It was true that she wasn't a bitch by nature, but John—more than just about anyone else she could think of—was most definitely capable of bringing it out in her.

Always had been.

"You know, I wouldn't be in such a hurry if I were you—this is going to hurt like hell."

He thankfully broached no response to that, and, gripping the tweezers tightly, Rogue began the arduous process of removing the glass lodged in his back.

A good deal of time passed before she realized that, apart from a noticeable tightening of his shoulders, John wasn't showing any sign of discomfort. Slightly perplexed, she took a quick break to kneel beside the bed and examine his face closely. He quirked a brow at her, and she frowned. "John, shouldn't you be yelling or something? I'm drawing inch-long pieces of glass out of your back, and you're bleeding like a stuck pig. I would think an 'ouch' or two would be in order."

He just looked at her for a moment, and it suddenly occurred to her; anything that she was doing to him right now was a lot less painful than what he was accustomed to. Biting her lip, she rose wordlessly and went back to work—vaguely ashamed of herself for not catching on sooner. As usual, she had been too concerned with her own problems to even notice anyone else's. Rogue was so occupied with silently berating herself, it took her a moment to realize that John had begun to speak.

"So, that ring? I'm guessing it was from Iceman."

She paused, hands trembling faintly as fresh batch of heartache hit her. "Yeah. Bobby gave it to me for our six month anniversary. It's got a real emerald and everything." She smiled softly at the memory, even as pain knotted her gut. "Not a big one, that's for sure—but a real one."

"He's really fucking around on you, huh?"

She winced. "Yeah. He's really fucking around on me."

Silence stretched on for a few long moments, making it officially the perfect moment to go for fresh towels. Rogue hurriedly crossed the room to the bathroom, where she wet a few loose rags and rinsed her tweezers. They had gone so slick with blood that it was becoming increasingly difficult to hold them steadily.

Returning to the bedroom, she found John in the exact position she'd left him. Leaning against the wall, she took a moment to simply take him in. And, God, was he a pitiful sight. Blood oozed from the gaping tears in his back, leaving the upper portion of his sweatpants and the towels beneath him stained irreparably crimson. Despite her best efforts to protect them, she held little doubt that the sheets would be ruined. Not that they seemed the slightest bit significant in the face of John's bleeding and beaten body.

And he hadn't cried out once.

A sudden thickness formed in her throat as she observed him. Rogue traversed the space between them swiftly, placing the damp rags on the bottom corner of the bed before once again kneeling on the floor next to his head. John's eyes had closed in her absence, but they opened abruptly as she began to trace her hand along his cheek. His skin was cool, and surprisingly soft. She smiled fondly down at him before abandoning his face to tenderly comb through his hair with her gloveless hand. "You know, Allerdyce—I'm going to have to find you a pretty big lollypop after this is all over with. You've got to be the best patient in the history of unlicensed, painfully awkward medical care."

He just looked at her, expression blank, and she realized that she had, for once, managed to take him by surprise. Then he smirked weakly. "Yeah, well—just remember that the next time you feel like playing doctor."

Rogue grinned, pulling back after one final ruffle of his dyed hair. "I'll keep that in mind." She busied herself with putting the wet rags to use, stroking them over his skin as delicately as possible in an attempt to clean up the bloodied mess that was his back. Making her task all the more difficult was the fact that she was no sooner able to press one cloth to his flesh before it became soaked to the point of uselessness with blood and disinfectant.

It took some doing, but she finally managed to get him relatively clean. Without the blood blocking her view, close scrutiny revealed one or two tiny pieces of glass that she had apparently missed in her first pass over his body. Frowning, she crossed over to the nightstand to retrieve her tweezers. John's hand on her wrist caught her by surprise, and she glanced down inquiringly. His grip tightened, and Rogue felt the rug once again dig into her knees as he tugged her down to his level.

"You know, I meant what I said earlier. Drake's a fucking idiot. He doesn't deserve you." His expression surprisingly solemn, John shifted on the bed. "He's better off with somebody normal, like that short girl. She'll follow him around like a puppy for as long as he wants her to, and it won't really matter—she's not wasting herself on him because it's the most she'll ever be capable of. And he'll deserve her because, being a fucking idiot, he'll never even know what he's missing."

Rogue winced, not sure whether to feel more flattered or insulted. "John, it's not that I don't appreciate what you're trying to say. I really do. But...next time you want to make me feel better, don't start out by telling me that I'm abnormal, alright?"

He snorted. "There you go again—trying to be something you're not. So the hell what if you're not normal? You're better than normal. You're better than Bobby or the bitch that he's fucking around with will ever be." John sat up on his elbows, waving off her attempts to get him to lay still. He looked at her, face dangerously close to hers. "Stop fighting it, Rogue. You'll always be different than them. Better than them. No matter what you do—you can't change it. It's in your blood. No fucking 'cure' is going to change that."

Rogue felt a twisting sensation in her gut at his words, and knew that her eyes were wide with astonishment—her generous lips softly parted.

_He really thought that. _

Something within her came alive at the knowledge, and she realized that this was what she had always wanted to hear from Bobby. But Bobby never could have said it like John had just said it. And even if he could have, he never would have been able to make her believe it.

John made her believe it.

Rogue leaned forward, centimeter by excruciating centimeter, unable to stop the descent as something deep inside of her pushed her inexplicably towards him. Her cheeks flushed, hands trembling as she rested them upon the mattress. She covered the final distance to his face, lips pressing gently—hesitantly—against his.

He didn't move at first. Rare surprise had been evident in his features from the moment she began to lean into him, and then his expression had abruptly altered, turning enigmatic. His blue eyes followed her movements keenly, and then closed with the second brush of her lips against his. One hand came up to caress her shoulder before drifting higher to entwine in her hair—pulling her closer, despite the awkwardness of their position.

Rogue opened her mouth under his, sighing with pleasure as John's tongue brushed boldly against hers before delving more deeply into her mouth. Both hands came up to stroke his jaw-line, and then changed direction to playfully trace over his ears before entangling in the softness of his hair.

It really was nothing at all like kissing Bobby. Bobby had been so smooth and practiced, constantly giving her the impression that he was counting down the seconds in his head—dreading the moment that her mutation would kick in, even when it was long gone from her. With John, there was absolutely no chance that his mind was elsewhere, or that he was fearful of her suddenly turning toxic in his arms. His attention was focused squarely and solely and unmistakably upon her, to the exclusion of anything else. She found that the feeling was contagious. There was no room to think of anything at all when John was kissing her, with the exception of the next brush of his lips or stroke of his hand.

Rogue was the first to pull away, breathing heavily. John looked at her, expression disconcertingly intent, and she felt herself begin to flush yet again. She looked away, chewing on her lip—discreetly savoring the lingering taste of him on her flesh. "You know, this is the part where I would usually run out of the room. But I can't—you've still got glass in your back, and I need to change the sheets."

John quirked a brow. "If you need to run out of the room, I can stand a few bloodstains. And I don't mind a couple of pieces of glass—I've had worse, you know."

Frowning, Rogue pushed a loose strand of hair out of his face. "That's the problem with you, you know—you've got no idea of how to take care of yourself. You don't eat right. You live like a pig—don't think I've forgotten the hellhole that was your room when you lived here. You're a mess, Allerdyce."

John made a face at her. "I take care of myself just fine. I always have. And I don't need some snooty Southern girl sticking her big nose in my business."

She looked him over. The pallor of his skin shone white against the blood-drenched material beneath him, and his disheveled hair stuck out in a hundred different directions—though, admittedly, that was mostly due to her hands running through it. He was painfully thin, and when he'd first leaned up to look at her she had become aware of the multitude of angry scars criss-crossing his upper body—no doubt the reason for his reluctance to take his shirt off in front of her.

And he said he wasn't a mess.

Rogue moved back slightly, crossing her arms on the mattress and resting her chin against them. "Yes, you do. And if you ever insult my nose again, I'll break your jaw."

John's lips twitched, even as he sneered at her. "I'm terrified."

"You should be. But..." her eyes clouded over as she once again took her lower lip between her teeth. "John—"

He cut her off, expression blank. "Let me guess." Affecting an exaggerated Mississippi drawl, he continued, "that kiss was a mistake, Ah don't know what got into me, but it'll nevah happen again..."

Rogue just shook her head, a smile tugging at her lips. "Yeah, pretty much. Except for the accent—that was absolutely God-awful. Now, shut up and put your arms down. I've got to finish digging this glass out of your back."

* * *

Want to keep up with me? I'm ModernAudrey on livejournal. Come visit! 

Thanks so, so much to my wonderful reviewers:

_Zshp1411, ingridmr, hollyparker, Dama Jade, Renawe217, BizarreLemon, Chica De Los Ojos Café, Anne la Jordanie, Levanna, Carline, Samurai Angel, MJLS, irishfairy, Cestari, Elirrina, The Truth About Roses, Elizabeth Marie Bennet, Supernatural Gilmore Girls, and rnelso1!!!!_

I appreciate each and every one of you more than I can say.

Thanks also to **Psychotherapy** for being my wonderful beta reader.

Please, I would appreciate it very much if you took the time to comment. Good or bad, it really does make my day to hear what you all think! Plus, my birthday is on the 14th--you've gotta review on my birthday! ;)


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven**

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She blamed John for this.

Pausing outside of the Television Room, struggling to prevent her face from contorting in horror at the sight before her, Rogue winced at the litany of curses--some of which must have been picked up through absorption, because _she_ had certainly never said them before--streaming through her mind.

It really was all his fault.

Almost a month had passed since John's release. Two weeks and six days, to be exact.

Not that she was counting.

Two weeks and six days since his return, and their subsequent...what? Reconciliation? That word seemed to imply a renewal of friendship, which was not entirely accurate. As it stood now, their relationship--if it could be called that--was more of a mutual ceasefire than anything else.

Rogue would be the first to admit that she had become increasingly isolated from the rest of the Mansion since John's re-entry into her life. Quite the achievement, actually, considering the already dismal state of her social existence. Close friends had always been few and far between, out of necessity if nothing else. Her mutation, along with its various other detriments, had hardly been conducive to close relationships. Now, due to the forcible suppression of said mutation, the majority of those few friends had turned their collective backs on her.

It was ironic, really.

The fact that she chose to associate with John the Traitor had effectively severed the few remaining relationships, leaving her essentially alone in a sea of mutant teens. It was that fact that had driven her to take up a sort of permanent guest-ship in John's room.

She had taken her fill of rude stares and wide berths in Mississippi. It wasn't something that she was willing to tolerate here.

Though there was rarely an hour of the day that she didn't see John, the amount of time spent actually interacting with one another was minimal. Her classes were really the only occasions that she actually ventured outside of the room, excluding the occasional meal. And even that was a rare event, due to the private kitchen on the Guest Hall. Even her nights were spent cuddled in a mound of blankets on his floor, meeting his occasional raised brow with an assurance of _'Just let me finish this book, John'_, or '_I'll leave after this show ends, John_'.

He seemed just as content as she to ignore the fact that, come morning, she hadn't moved a muscle towards the door. For which she was eternally grateful.

Damnit, this was _all his fault_.

She didn't think that the silence would bother her half as much if it were from anyone but John. John, whose constantly running mouth and seeming inability to ignore any opportunity for a caustic remark had so often driven her up the wall. Now his time was spent laying on bed, flicking that stupid lighter and refusing to respond to even her most sharp baits with anything but a raised eyebrow or a mocking sneer.

In her more romantic moments, it occasionally occurred to her that John's uncharacteristic indolence may have some basis in her rejection of the kiss they had shared. However, that thought quickly abated when countered with reason. She had kissed him, after all, and beyond a general eagerness to participate he had shown no deeper feeling to her than a sarcastic sort of friendship.

Above all that, he had made no move to pull her into any such situation since. And, disconcertingly aware that this caused her just as much disappointment as relief, Rogue couldn't help but wonder if that fact alone disturbed her even more than the quiet.

He didn't even bother to argue with her anymore. It just wasn't natural.

Even now, his mouth was firmly closed. Leaving her to deal with the ridiculously horrible situation at hand. Despite the fact that he was so clearly to blame for this whole hideous thing. If he hadn't been so uncharacteristically, unnervingly quiet and dejected, she never would have attempted to draw him out of the depressing cave that was their--no, _his_ room. If he weren't constantly complaining about the miniscule size of the television set that she had acquired for their--his--room, it never would have occurred to her to use the big screen television in the TV Room as bait. And if he hadn't chosen tonight of all nights to finally give in to her needling, she wouldn't be in this mess in the first place.

Finally coming to the conclusion that John was going to give her about as much help as he usually did--absolutely none--she cleared her throat.

"Hi Kitty. Bobby."

The two nodded their greetings, looking as uncomfortable as she felt. Well, Kitty looked uncomfortable. Bobby just looked pissed. That was hardly new, though; he'd been giving her the same look for weeks.

Kitty offered her a hesitant smile. "We were just going to watch a movie...but if you--" she glanced at John, then hurriedly turned her gaze back towards Rogue. "If you were going to use the TV, we can always go back to Bobby's room and watch his."

Oh, so that was how she was going to play it. What a bitch.

It briefly occurred to her that, in all honesty, Kitty looked about as evil as a housefly. However, she set aside the thought immediately. She was a woman scorned, for God's sake. She was allowed a bit of unjustified spite.

Realizing that the silence had gone on too long, Rogue forced her lips to curl up into a gracious smile. "Don't be silly. You were here first." Which was a bald-faced lie. They had entered from opposing doors at the exact same time, movies and snacks in hand. It was like a scene from a poorly written sitcom. But if Kitty was going to act all sweet, she was damned if she would come off looking like the witch in this situation.

Off to the side, John was glaring at Kitty. "Actually, _we_ were going to--" A sharp but subtle elbow to his side shut him up, and Rogue continued to smile beneficently at her two erstwhile friends.

Kitty hesitated before continuing. "Well, we were going to watch a horror movie. Bobby's idea, of course." She sent a fond look in the direction of the tall blond, currently engaged in an epic battle of glares with John, and Rogue's teeth began a slow grind. "But if you wanted to watch it with us, that would be great. The more the merrier, right?" she quipped weakly, cheery smile never faltering.

The suggestion was apalling. And completely impossible to refuse without Kitty coming out as the bigger person for offering. Beside her, John sneered. "Oh, sure--_umph_." He was silenced with a concealed pinch this time, and sent a look promising vengeance in Rogue's direction.

"We'd love to." John's protest was eliminated with a look of her own, considerably more violent than his. _All. His. Fault. _"Just let us run to the kitchen for some more snacks first."

She virtually dragged John behind her to the small connecting room, overhearing Bobby's fervent protests to a very flustered looking Kitty as she shut the door firmly behind them. She turned to John, decisively crossing her arms over her chest.

"You're going to do this for me."

John's expression would be comical, were it not for the homicidal look intermingled with his almost cartoon-esque bafflement. "Are you fucking insane? I'd rather swallow hydrochloric acid. Why would I--"

"I'll tell you 'why you would'," she interrupted, gloved hands reaching up to fist in his black t-shirt, yanking him close to her face. "Because I cook for you practically every night. Because I actually consume those disgusting things that you call anchovies and I call arsenic on the nights that I _don't_ cook. Because I dug glass out of your despicable, bloody, pale-assed back after you claimed to have had sex with me in front of my boyfriend. Because right this minute, my now _ex-boyfriend_ is out there cuddling with my ex-friend, who is likely congratulating herself for being kind enough to invite us to sit down with her after everything that's happened." She dragged John closer, taking in his alarmed expression even as she inhaled deeply, trying to make up for the longest run-on rant in history. "And, above all else, because I am the only person in this sorry place who gives enough of a damn about you to not _kill you_ just for the fun of it. For all of those reasons, St. John, you are going to go out there, sit next to me, and keep your mouth shut. And not pick a fight with Bobby either, because, John--" she looked away, realizing that tears were gathering in the corners of her eyes and helpless to do anything to stop them. "I am just a small enough of a person to actually be bothered by the idea of those two sitting up in his room and congratulating one another for actually trying to include us in something, and then spending the rest of the night making out his bed and taking the occasional break to talk about how right Bobby was in deciding to trade in an immature coward for a...a...a Kitty, dammit." She finished on a sigh, out of breath and miserable.

Losing Bobby was still raw in her mind, mostly because she'd done everything in her power to avoid thinking about it. The fact that she was actually standing here, begging John to sit next to him for a solid two hours, only acted as testament to her obvious insanity. Sighing again, readying herself to withdraw the request, John's reply stopped her in her tracks.

"Fine."

Rogue's head snapped up. "What?"

"Fine," he grit out, running a frustrated hand through vaguely spiked hair. "Now get whatever you're going to get, and let's get this the hell over with."

She nodded mutely, mildly shocked by his assent, and he clenched his teeth. "I'll be waiting outside."

The door slammed behind him, and Rogue rushed to grab a few bag of chips and a couple of drinks, sure that he would change his mind given more than a few moments alone with Bobby.

Thirty minutes into the movie, Rogue was already cursing her stupid pride. Every time a body fell in a glorious display of modern cinematic tedium, Kitty moved another inch closer to Bobby. At the moment, she was all but in his lap.

With nothing else she cared to watch on-screen or off, Rogue found herself staring intently at John. It was a rather disconcerting habit that she'd picked up lately, finding unreasonable interest in the curves and planes of his features. His body had finally filled out from the almost skeletal state of just a few weeks ago, and she found herself engrossed in the rise and fall of his chest as he drew breath.

She'd always been vaguely fascinated by him, even in the early days at the Mansion. His intensity had drawn her in from the beginning, capturing her attention as little else did. It was the little things, really; the flare of heat in his eyes when he was angry, or the way his lips curled back in reaction to a stupid comment. He was never still; always moving--a flick of his lighter, his fingers drumming an erratic beat against whatever surface was available...enthrallingly volatile.

And, if the old John had been unpredictable, the new John was even more so. Hard edged, constantly exploding in rage at what should be a trifle. Or maintaining his calm when he should be livid. Familiar and foreign, and somehow more engrossing than ever.

Blue eyes met brown, and Rogue suddenly realized that he was staring back at her, fully aware of her rapt gaze. His eyes were shadowy and glittering in the iridescent glow of the television set. Lush bottom lip catching between her teeth, she looked hurriedly back to the screen.

The minutes passed like molasses, heavy and dull and disorienting. Every surreptitious glance up revealed Kitty and Bobby shifting closer and closer together, until, finally, company was forgotten and cuddling bled into kissing.

Rogue bit back the urge to stand up and leave. They looked ridiculous together, she told herself; they really did. Except they didn't. They looked...right. And that was what was really killing her.

Next to her, John shifted. Warm skin brushed against her wrist, above the line of her glove, before his fingers gently entwined with her own. And it was sweet, and unexpected, and completely horrible. And just enough to calm the aching spot inside of her. His hand began a soothing caress of her wrist, calloused thumb circling the bare skin above her pulse-point. Ignoring the nagging impulse to push him away, Rogue instead allowed her head to drop to his shoulder. John was her friend--her only real friend, by the looks of it. And maybe it was a not-so-good idea to have him so close to her, but, God. He was comforting, and he was comfortable, and without him close to her there was absolutely no way that she would be able to make it through the next hour.

And there was absolutely no way that she was going to analyze that random thought any further.

Rogue settled back, eyes firmly averted from the happy couple, content to watch the remainder of the film in blissful ignorance.

It was several minutes later that she realized John's hand had slipped from hers, and shifted to her leg. Lithe fingers beat out a steady little rhythm on her knee, before changing speed considerably. Just fingertips touching now, skimming lightly from knee to mid-thigh. That was all it took for her breath to catch, and a traitorous little voice in her to begin to sing.

He's touching me, he's touching me, he's touching me...

And it felt really, really good.

Hands glided up and down the rough denim covering her thigh, and she felt goose-bumps begin to sprinkle across her skin. It wasn't the touch of a lover, and yet it was enough to set her heart to racing and cause her throat to go dry. Dipping and swaying across the edge of her pocket, thumb playing lightly with the raised seam. His whole hand shifting to rest on her skin, covered only by the thin layer of worn fabric. Gentle, and so lovely and warm it made her ache inside.

She was glad that he was no longer caressing her wrist, because her pulse had increased noticeably. The speed was quite alarming really. Her belly clenched, heat pooling beneath her skin and suffusing her cheeks with a slight glow.

Setting her teeth determinedly, Rogue prepared herself to tell him to stop. But when she glanced up, he was staring right back at her. Eyes dark, and blue, and...blue. Really, really blue.

Why did they have to be so damned _blue? _Because now, so engrossed was she in deciphering the exact color...Azure? Cobalt?...she couldn't even remember what she was going to say.

Head fuzzy, eyes slitted in concentration, Rogue vaguely realized that her lower lip had at some point slid between her teeth. She worried it absently, trying to look away and failing miserably. He appeared to be faring much better than she, because his gaze shifted from her eyes to her lips. And, was he closer to her than before?

Yes. Yes he was. Much closer.

Her eyes had already drifted shut, face turned up in anticipation, before reality set in.

Reality was that they were sitting in the common room, some dizzy blond screaming as a murderer chased her across the screen. Reality was that an ex-friend and an ex-boyfriend were making out two feet away from them, but certainly not so involved that they wouldn't notice...what they would notice if she allowed this to continue.

But, most of all, reality was that she was a big, fat, chicken.

So, just like a good little coward, she stood and made her way into the kitchen, tossing over her shoulder the first feeble excuse that came to mind; something about an empty glass of water.

She was already through the door before realizing that the glass in her hand was full to the brim.

* * *

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_-_

_Author's Note:_

_I'm graduated! Sorry for the long lapse between updates, but it was necessary. Spanish class and me weren't getting along too long, and I kinda had to put in the extra effort to...you know...get my diploma and all;)_

_Sorry also for the abrupt ending. In a perfect world, this and the next chapter wouldn't have to be separated. But, if I'd followed the original outline, this sucker would have been about twenty-five pages long._

_I really hope that everyone is still reading! If so, please let me know what you think. I really appreciate all of the comments for last chapter, and I promise that next chapter I will get back on track with thanking you all individually._


	8. Chapter 8

_Thanks to Psychotherapy for the beta!!_

**Chapter Eight**

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-

All but panting, Rogue leaned desolately against the kitchen sink. Her heart was still pounding disconcertingly loudly, the echo combined with the rushing in her ears leaving her even more unsettled than before.

It didn't make sense that John should effect her this way. Even now heat was pulsing beneath her skin, concentrated in all of those areas that had so recently felt his touch.

It wasn't that it was an unfamiliar sensation. She had experienced the same effect three weeks ago, when she had kissed him. But, a kiss she could ignore. Kisses were meant to make your heart pound and your blood rush. And, even if Bobby's lips had never elicited such a heady response from her, she could easily attribute that to disparate chemistry.

But, that was a kiss. This was a soft look and a few strokes of her leg. Nothing that should leave her breathless. Nothing that should make her body sing and her skin tingle.

Nothing at all, really. And that was what worried her.

A horrible thought suddenly occurred to her, and she did her best to quash it immediately. But to no avail.

She didn't... No. Not John. No, surely even she couldn't be that stupid. Not stupid enough to become enamored of a person who, mere months ago, had been serving faithfully under the thumb of the man who had sucked all but the last drops of life from her body.

John knew what she had suffered at the hands of that maniac; knew that she rarely passed a night without at least one nightmare at his hands. He had stayed up with her countless times, sitting on the couch and pretending that it was because they both wanted to see a late movie. He was one of the few that she'd trusted with the entire story.

His leaving had been a personal betrayal, and not merely of the Mansion versus Brotherhood variety.

That first night, she had told him that she was content to ignore his time with the Brotherhood, should he repay her in kind regarding the cure. No forgiving, no forgetting...just blissful denial. And that was true, as far as a tacit friendship went. But, should she actually acknowledge that she desired something more from him--which she certainly _was not_ doing...well, there was no way it could work. No way at all.

A sigh escaped her lips as she straightened, squaring her shoulders. So, she was back to square one. Denial. And, if nothing else, at least that emotion was familiar.

Occupied as she was, she didn't sense the presence of another in the room at first. Not until he was almost on top of her, as it were.

John--and, of course it was John. She was an idiot to think he would let her run away that easily. He stood behind her, solid chest pressing flush against her ever-stiffening back even as she gasped softly. A leanly muscled arm came around her body, and she tried to think of how to best approach pushing him away. Just as quickly, though, the contact had ended. Rather than attempting to pull her to him, he had instead set something in front of her on the counter.

Fighting down an unwelcome surge of disappointment, Rogue glanced down. A bottle of water.

Still disconcertingly close, John's breath danced off of her ear when he spoke. "Wasn't that what you came after?"

Licking suddenly dry lips, Rogue spun around--almost immediately realizing her error. He had her at the disadvantage, backed into a corner as she was. He made no move to step back. Moistening her lips again, she gathered her resolve. "Thanks. I was just..."

His sudden step forward caught her by surprise, and she steadied herself with the flats of her hands against the counter behind her. His body pressed her uncomfortably against the surface, even as his hands came around to rest just outside of hers on the counter-top.

"You know," John murmured, and his tone sounded conversational. Knowing him as well as she did, however, she could recognize the difference, and the husky undertone as his eyes fixated on her mouth. "That's what almost got you into trouble out there."

Hands shaking slightly, Rogue clenched them tighter on the edge of the counter. "What?" Her voice trembled to match her hands, and she suppressed a wince.

"That." A calloused thumb drifted up, ghosting lightly over the delicate curve of her mouth. The breath left her lips in a shuddering exhalation, and his hand drifted, sliding down to rest on her throat. Just over her traitorously fluttering pulse point.

Rogue fought to tear her gaze from his, but found that it took far too much effort. She felt sluggish, and reluctant to move an inch. Much like she had minutes ago, on the couch. Looking into John's eyes and waiting for him to kiss her.

Was that what she was doing now?

The thought was enough to stir her, and she broke free from the loose prison his arms had constructed, crossing over to one of the cabinets and retrieving a clean glass. She had brought the water with her, and she fought to steady her hands enough to loosen the cap. Even such a mundane task as removing the lid from a bottle had always been complicated by her gloves, though, and under the circumstances--hands still trembling like leaves in a windstorm--twisting the top at the right angle felt like attempting to solve a complex geometric equation. And she had never been very good at math.

Snorting disparagingly, John yanked the bottle back, opening it easily. He set it down beside her forcefully and water splashed over the rim. His hand reached out to tilt her chin up, and Rogue met his gaze reluctantly. Surprised at the anger she saw reflected there, she attempted to look away. His harsh grip held her motionless, though, and his lips pulled back into a familiar sneer.

"Not very thoughtful of me, was it? Coming in here and bothering you. Guess you probably would have liked it a lot better if I'd sent Iceman after you."

She pushed back, knocking his hand away. "Shut up, John. You don't know what you're talking about."

"Oh, no? That what you think?"

She started to turn away, but his grip on her arm stopped her.

"Trust me, Roguey, I know exactly what I'm talking about. Down to the last sickening, lovey-dovey look. And it's enough to make a person want to sandpaper his fucking eyes."

"Stop it, John." She tried to free her arm, but his fingers just sank deeper into her flesh. Frustrated, she scowled up at him. "You bastard. You know how I feel about Bobby, and you just have to throw him in my face anyway, don't you?"

He let go with a grimace, eyes rolling in a gesture of overt disgust. "Christ, spare me..."

"No, damn it." Angered, she moved closer. "I'm so sick of this. Walking around on eggshells all month, ignoring every despicable comment you level at me just to keep you happy. Putting up with your moping and your raging and your slamming around, and not saying a single word about it."

"Oh, yeah? Is that right? Well, who the hell asked you to?"

Rogue looked down, allowing the breath to leave her lungs in some obscene semblance of laughter. When she looked up, her eyes were bright and flashing. "Nobody asked me to. I _asked_ me to. Because you used to be someone I could trust. Now...I don't know what the hell you are. You don't talk to me. All you do is scowl and stomp and growl like some idiotic overgrown bobcat. You don't even act like yourself, John. You were always a bastard, but never like this. I never thought that you actually _enjoyed_ hurting me. Now, I'm not so sure. All I've got to do is look at you the wrong way, and you go for my throat."

He didn't say a word. Just glared at her with those horrible eyes of his. Drawing a hand over her face briefly, Rogue cursed the impulse that had incited her to let so much break free. A month of holding her tongue had worn at her defenses. It was like an avalanche; all it had taken was one rock to bring the majority of the others crashing to the ground. Now she stood bare, emotions out in the open, and no way to cover them back up. Removing her hand and squaring her shoulders, forcing herself to meet his impassive gaze, she returned to square one. "Even before you left, you never even attempted to hide the fact that you thought Bobby and I were a mistake, John."

"Because you were."

"You see? Just like that! You did everything you possibly could to screw up our relationship."

He pushed a hand through his hair, blue eyes narrowed in a mixture of anger and frustration. "What? I was supposed to just sit back and play along with something so fucking stupid?"

"Yes!" She exhaled roughly, eyes closing in consternation. He started to reply, no doubt with another scathing barb, and she held up a hand. "Please, John, just stop. I don't want to talk about this anymore."

When she opened her eyes, he was smiling sardonically. "So stop talking."

And then he kissed her.

Stunned into inactivity for a moment, it didn't take her long to gather herself enough to push at his chest, albeit ineffectively. But, even as she did so, a part of her was resigned to the fact that she wouldn't succeed. For the simple reason that she didn't really want to. This was the very definition of a 'token struggle.' And, like most token struggles, it ended almost as soon as it had began. In no time at all, her hands were pulling instead of pushing, drawing him closer instead of shoving him away. Gloved hands fisted in his shirt, lips parting to allow him greater access.

When he eventually pulled away, mouth dancing across her cheek and jaw-line as they both drew in much-needed oxygen, she considered resuming her quasi-struggle. But that same sluggishness had returned, dragging her down and pushing her up at the same time. And, frankly, it just required too much effort.

Lips gentled considerably, John's mouth descended once again to hers in a series of light, playful caresses even as his hands moved restlessly down her sides, finding purchase in the small of her back as gloriously nimble fingers tangled in the belt loops of her jeans. Between the lush, teasing brushes of his lips, Rogue found herself speaking almost against her will.

"John, stop."

"Shut up." His breath was warm over her mouth, glancing pleasantly off of her skin. "If you ruin this, I'll kill you."

Allowing herself to drift for a moment, luxuriating in the pleasant sensation of soft lips dancing over hers and strong arms encompassing her waist, it was with a feeling of intense self-abhorrence that she once again protested. "John, stop it. I can't concentrate."

Blowing out an exasperated breath and glaring mightily, he practically snarled as he pushed her away. "What the hell is it? What, Rogue?"

Gathering the remaining fragments of her self-control, she desperately fought the urge to fling herself towards him and plead with him to ignore her rebuttal. "I can't do this John. I still care about Bobby. It's not right."

Smoothing a hand over his face, he appeared utterly disgusted. Then he scowled. "Tell me something, Rogue; what's Drake's favorite color?"

She shook her head, at first convinced she had heard him wrong. He motioned for her to hurry her answer, and she sighed. "I have no idea, John. What does this have to do with anything?"

"Okay. Favorite holiday?"

Rolling her eyes, she shrugged. "I don't know. Christmas."

"It's Halloween. Favorite band?"

"I..." she scowled, not liking where this was heading. "He likes all the same music I like. You know that."

"The hell he does, Rogue. He hates your music. Only pretended to like it to impress you. Which you would know, if you actually paid attention to anything he said."

In the back of her mind, she recalled with clarity the slight wince that Bobby would wear every time she put on an album. It had always been there, but had never really registered with her until now. The realization didn't sit well. Her brow furrowed, eyes narrowing as she shook her head. "What are you trying to say, John? That I was a terrible girlfriend?"

"That may be true, but it's not what I'm trying to say. What I _am_ trying to say is, you don't give two damns about Bobby. The only thing you ever bothered to find out about him was that he was a nice, normal, boring guy, and--oh my God!--he actually wanted a psychotic bitch like you--and, before you get all pissy, believe me; I mean that as the deepest sort of compliment. So stop using your inane little defense mechanism-slash-former lapdog against me. Cause it's really starting to get under my fucking skin."

Though aware that she still stood firm, Rogue couldn't push back the feeling that the ground had just been jerked from beneath her feet. Mouth slightly agape, she found herself at a loss for words. A multitude of denials ran through her mind, but she couldn't force any of them to leave her mouth. None of them rang true, no matter how hard she tried to make them.

John sighed, putting his hands on her shoulders and examining her face closely. "Look, I know how much you like to pretend that you're happy being like all of the rest of these idiots. But you've got to get the hell over it, before it fucks you up anymore than it already has."

That certainly snapped her free of shock-imposed silence, if nothing else. Eyes flashing up at him, she all but growled. "What exactly makes you think that you can psychoanalyze me, Pyro?"

His jaw clenched, and one hand came up to tangle unforgivingly in her hair. "Get this straight, Rogue. I'll do whatever the hell I want, whenever the hell I want."

When his lips descended this time, she was right there waiting for him. Lips turned up anxiously, her hands knotted in his hair as her body pressed eagerly into his. Returning his kiss forcefully, heart pounding out a steady rhythm in her ears, she wound her arms tightly around his neck.

There was no thought of Bobby holding her back. No residual fear of ruining the tacit friendship that they had formed. Only anger, and resentment, and the insanely violent urges to both slap him and hold him tighter doing battle within her. She found herself going with the second option, and her breath left her in a steady hiss against his lips as he backed her, again, against the counter. Using the slick surface for leverage, she pushed herself still tighter against John's chest, desperate to have him even closer.

Mouth grinding almost painfully against hers, John's hands descended to her waist. She yelped softly as her feet abruptly left the ground, shocked to find herself suddenly resting precariously against the counter. But the thought fled her mind as John utilized the new position to shift her against him, hips pressing impatiently into her, and her lips left his in a startled gasp. Murmuring resentfully, John's left hand immediately returned to her hair to pull her back in place. The other remained at her waist, tracing the curve of her hip, before shifting to explore the exposed skin between the hem of her shirt and her jeans.

Rogue exhaled harshly, lost in the unfamiliar sensations overtaking her mind and body. The small section of her brain still consciously open to thought was completely overwhelmed. However far she may have gotten with Bobby, she had never felt anything remotely like this.

Grinding his body against her again, John's lips descended to her throat, ghosting fleetingly over her collarbone. The feel of his stubble scraping over flesh was quite literally breathtaking. She gasped, nails scraping gently over his shoulders as her hands easily worked their way up the loose sleeves of his shirt in search of more exposed skin.

He pushed her away abruptly, and Rogue let out a sharp protest. Bereft, her hands fisted in the fabric of his shirt in an attempt to pull him back. Then she caught sight of Kitty standing in the doorway, and she practically whimpered.

John's hand settled on her back, smoothing over her shoulders soothingly even as the other hand curved over hip, helping her down from the counter. She attempted to step away, but his hand remained locked at her side in a grip that could only be described as possessive. Rogue ignored it, but only because she had more important things to worry about. Namely, straightening her shirt.

Even as her mind formed the words_--it couldn't possibly get any worse than this--_she was already trying to bite them back. But the spell was already cast, the punishment in motion. Bobby appeared beside Kitty, and John's whole body seemed to tense. And, alternately cursing and praying under her breath, Rogue took the opportunity to thank Heaven for at least allowing her to have her clothing back in place in time.

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_Thanks so much to Fantasygirl721, Kinetic Chimistry, HeroineInducedPanic, Evil lady X, Chica De Los Ojos Cafe, Ratdogtwo, Elirrina, New York Vanilla, Dizzy007, lingtning8star, zshp1411, Ranawe217, Tarafish, and Anne la Jordanie for reviewing!_


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter Nine**

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**-**

It was ridiculous really. Melodramatic, and disgustingly predictable. If only there were a film crew in the kitchen, they could probably send the footage in to a soap opera. It would be simple enough to splice it in somewhere: maybe directly between an extramarital affair and a hospital coma scene. Just stick in some tacky instrumental muzak and slap a pair of implants on Kitty; it would fit the screen like a charm.

Still framed in the doorway, Bobby almost resembled an ice sculpture. Cliche, but true; he hadn't moved an inch, his entire face frozen into an expression of disgust, bafflement, and anger. Kitty was staring up at him, clearly hurt by his fierce reaction.

As for John, he was still clutching at Rogue's waist like a vice despite her best efforts to shift away. Her every attempt at breaking free resulted only in a tightening of his grip, until his fingers dug almost painfully into her flesh. At last, fearing for her circulation, she capitulated and abandoned her struggles.

For the moment, anyway.

Rogue couldn't see his face, arranged as they were with him at her back, arm spread across her middle like a shackle. But, if the tensity of his body was any inclination of his mood, she'd be willing to bet that he probably wasn't too happy with the situation.

As for herself...well, she was mortified. No further elaboration required.

"Just what in the hell is going on in here?" Across the room, Bobby had finally found his voice. It was all Rogue could do not to roll her eyes, and a small voice in the back of her mind wondered just exactly he _thought _was going on. Of course, she blamed this uncharacteristic display of sarcasm on John's influence.

Over her shoulder John spoke up. "I would think that would be pretty obvious, Iceman, even to a repressed fuck-up such as yourself. What I don't know is why exactly it's any business of yours." His words almost disconcertingly echoed her own thoughts, save for most of the malice with which they were expressed.

What she hadn't predicted, though, was the way his hand splayed across her stomach as he spoke, beginning a slow rubbing motion that she felt all the way from her tousled hair to her toes. Her right hand came up to bat him away, but it was a half-hearted attempt. Instead of yielding to her efforts, John merely took the opportunity to grab hold of her bare hand with his free one, leaving her at an even greater disadvantage. She had somehow lost her gloves--she wished that she could blame _that _on John, but, to her chagrin, she clearly remembered slinging them off in a rather humiliating attempt to get closer to his skin. Now, she felt almost naked without them. Ridiculous, really, but none the less true for its lack of logic. Those gloves were a defense mechanism...one of many.

Bobby's eyes seemed to be rooted on John's hands, one tangled with her own at her side while the other so familiarly caressed the curves of her abdomen. Though she couldn't see John's face, Rogue had little doubt that it reflected self-satisfied contempt. He was an expert at pushing Bobby's buttons. She was fully aware that his hold on her at the moment had nothing to do with her, and everything to do with antagonizing his former friend. Still, for reasons utterly unbeknownst to herself, she made no further move to extricate herself from his grasp.

Bobby's jaw ticked, and John continued. "Why don't you take your pasty little sweetheart off to Lover's Lane and leave us the fuck alone. You looked like you were making plenty of progress on the couch out there; stay at it a couple of hours, you may just figure out how to work that little twig in your panties."

That did it. Bobby stepped forward, challenging glare firmly in place. "I think we'd better take this outside, don't you?"

John's smirk was almost giddy, and Rogue rolled her eyes as he stepped away. "I was hoping you'd say that. Lead the way, Drake." On his way out, he flashed her a cocky wink over his shoulder. "Why don't you just stay here and wait? This won't take long."

Rogue just sighed, leaning against the counter as she watched them leave. Ordinarily, she'd follow them regardless of John's self-important dictations. But, it'd been a hell of an evening. She figured she deserved a five minute break before heading out to bust up the boys' newest brawl.

"This is _so _not how I'd planned this night." Rogue had almost forgotten Kitty's presence in the room. Therefore, it came with some surprise when the girl approached her, resting her own boyish frame against the slick surface.

"Tell me about it," she replied, at a loss for anything more original, and the girls once again reverted to awkward silence.

A few minutes later, pink-painted fingernails flashing under the light, Kitty gestured towards the display of sheer male idiocy taking place outside of the window. Bobby had managed to tackle John already, bringing them both to the ground, and they seemed to be rolling around like a couple of over-exuberant dogs. Except with a lot more cursing and bloodshed. "Pretty idiotic, huh?"

Rogue nodded, momentarily forgetting the fact that she currently considered Kitty to be a man-stealing trollop. "Incredibly. I wish they'd just get it over with and get it out of their systems. But that hasn't seemed to work so far, has it?"

"Nope." Kitty hesitated. "But, you can't really blame Bobby, can you?" Rogue's head jerked up, eyes narrowing, but she continued hastily. "Come on, Rogue, be fair. Pyro's not exactly the innocent party in this. He left us, you know? He was on the other side. Now he shows up, and everything's supposed to be forgiven?"

Rogue continued to observe her sharply. "It's not as though he came crawling back on his knees, you know. They had to drag him in here on a stretcher. He's been through hell, Kitty. I don't expect Bobby to be his best buddy or anything, but he could at least stop tackling him every chance he gets."

"And Pyro could stop antagonizing him at every possible opportunity." Kitty countered.

They were at an impasse. A few more moments passed in silence, and the two watched as the subjects of their debate shoved, smacked, and in every other possible way beat the hell out of each other.

John landed a slug to Bobby's jaw, and Kitty winced. "Do you think we should stop them, or go get somebody?"

Really, it was a miracle that no one had come down yet. But, as late as it was, most of the students were in bed by now. The dorms were on the other end of the Mansion, thus largely removing that possibility. There were faculty rooms directly upstairs, but Logan, Storm, and the majority of the X-team were on a mission. The remaining faculty...well, apparently they were deep sleepers. How very comforting.

A beat passed, and Rogue's brow arched lightly after considerable thought. "Nah, not just yet. Let them blow off a little steam. John hasn't looked this cheerful in weeks."

It was true. The two had somehow worked their way to their feet, and Bobby had John backed up against a wide oak tree, knuckles dug into his throat. John shoved him, leaves and loosened dirt flying in their wake as he landed a shot to the taller boy's solar plexus. Rogue was somewhere between irritated and disconcertingly amused to note the slight grin playing over his vaguely bloodied lips as the fight progressed.

"You know," Kitty continued, voice lower now. More serious. "I used to watch Bobby all the time. Before you got here and after you got here." Rogue's head shot up once more, and Kitty smiled weakly. "Please, just hear me out."

At her reluctant nod, Kitty cleared her throat and proceeded haltingly. "I used to watch him, because I've been crazy about him since the very first minute that I saw him. And, when I saw him, I'd see Pyro...John, I guess. They were always together, so I kind of couldn't miss him. And, yeah, they fought a lot. They were guys, you know? I've seen them beating each other senseless more times than I can even remember. But, it was always just...they'd fight, and they'd be finished. No apologies or anything, they'd just get it out of their systems and go on like nothing happened.

"But then you showed up, and it got different. They'd do the same things...play a prank or two, talk about cars, get in a fistfight once in a while...but it was different. Before, it was all about the in-between times. Messing with the professors or writing something obscene on the chalkboards... But, with you here, it turned into the opposite. They still hung around, but not for each other anymore. It was all about who was going to sit next to you, or who was going to open the door for you, or who was going to buy your lunch," she sighed. "And when the fights happened, they didn't end...they just built up and gave more steam to the next fight."

Rogue, aghast, just shook her head. "Kitty--"

"No, let me finish, okay?" The girl smiled hesitantly. "From the minute you got here, it was all about you. And, you know, what was so incredibly frustrating was that you were completely oblivious to it. You thought you were all best pals or whatever." She looked up, eyes cloudy with resentment. "Well, let me clue you in, okay? Every single fight that they've had has been for you, from the very beginning. All of them. This one included." Her eyes were tearing up, and she shot a quick glance in Bobby's direction before looking away quickly. "I don't know about Pyro, but Bobby loves you, Rogue. Me? I'm just the stand-in until you make up your mind as to what exactly it is you want. So, I know you hate me, but...would you just make up your mind already? Please?"

She turned at that, walking out the door without a backward glance. Leaving Rogue standing, stunned, in her wake.

A few minutes later, Rogue was still in a state of bewilderment. At a loss, she continued to watch out the window absently, just for the sake of keeping an eye on John. Mind focused on how to handle the situation before her, and decidedly set on ignoring her rival's outburst until later. Or not. It had been brought to her attention time and again recently that she was incredibly skilled at ignoring what she chose. Kitty's revelations would definitely qualify under that category.

The problem was, in the process of being alerted as to her own tendencies towards repression, she had also become all too aware of where they had gotten her: a cheating boyfriend that she knew about as intimately as Ronald Reagan, a betraying best friend, and an ever-increasing tendency toward insomnia. That the latter had been all but cured ever since taking up residency in the room of a sadistic former lackey to a super villain with whom she had just spent a rather intense make-out session...well, that wasn't exactly as comforting as one might hope.

In relation to the fight currently taking place outside, Rogue didn't know what she was more worried about--John getting out of line and burning Bobby to a crisp, or him taking any serious damage himself. She had just about decided to head outside and break things up when, as she watched, things seemed to wind down on their own. She sighed, watching as Bobby shoved him to the ground for what seemed to be the final time. Neither looked particularly damaged...of course, if things had headed in that direction at any point, she would have been outside in a heartbeat.

Then John opened his mouth, and, as usual, that could only spell trouble. From the look on her former boyfriend's face, it must have been a real crowd-pleaser.

Bobby's reaction as he was finally pushed too far was instantaneous and violent. He turned back towards John in a fluid motion, and by the time the rotation was complete his fists had iced completely. He charged forward, and John met him halfway. His fists locked on John's arms, pushing forward as John pushed back. The slight wince on John's face was the only inclination of discomfort, although Rogue knew that the pressure coming off of those iced up hands had to be killing him. He was backed up against a wide oak tree, Bobby's hands at his chest, when Rogue spun around and sprinted from the room.

She halted for about a millisecond at the stairs, briefly considering going for help, but rejected the idea due to the time it would take, and the perhaps vain hope that she may be able to break them up alone. Logan had threatened to toss John back in a cell if he got too far out of line, after all. She didn't relish the thought of word getting back to him unnecessarily. And, if she failed, she had no doubt that plenty of people would come running once they saw John's flames shooting across the grounds. She cursed herself again for not going out with them, but, honestly, she never thought it would get this far. Bobby and John had come to blows a hundred times before this, and it had always stopped on its own steam. Never had it come this far.

Stumbling out the door and down the stairs, she caught her breath at the sight before her. John must have put forth a final burst of effort, pushing Bobby--iced arms and all--to the ground. But, as she watched, Bobby reversed their positions. Now he was the one with his knee digging into John's chest, frozen hands clenched on either side of his head. Rogue bit back a scream as his fist crashed into John's chin, sending blood spraying across the ground beside him.

She cried out for Bobby to stop, but it was to no effect. So, at a loss, she launched herself at the two of them. Crashing hard into Bobby's chest, the momentum carried them both across the soil and away from John, whose head was lulling terrifyingly to one side.

She ended up sitting on top of Bobby's torso, half straddling him and wincing at the effort to keep him from pushing her aside. At a loss for anything else to do, she slapped him as hard as she could across the face. "Bobby, stop it! Snap the hell out of it! He's out cold, okay?" She slapped him again, and felt her heart nearly stop from relief when some of the blind rage dimmed from his expression. His eyes, which had gone an icy pale, cleared slightly. Then they closed, and he breathed heavily for a few moments. At last, they reopened and he made a move to sit up.

"Is he okay?"

Rogue planted both hands on his chest, shoving hard. His head bounced off the grass, and she glowered mightily. "Like you care." She moved away from him, crouching at John's side as one hand smoothed tenderly through his hair. To her everlasting gratitude, his eyes fluttered slightly before opening. His expression was cloudy, but very much aware, and she exhaled roughly as relief swamped her body. Not moving from her spot, she turned to glare at a watchful Bobby.

"Is he alright? What should I do?"

"I think you've been enough help for one day," she grit out, eyes shooting sparks at him. "Get out of here."

He hesitated, and she stared him down angrily. Then his shoulders slumped as he turned, murmuring a soft apology under his breath, and made his way to the house.

Rogue turned back to John, eyes slitting in concentration as she examined the various cuts and dents he'd managed to accrue this time around. It appeared that Bobby had only nailed him once with his fists iced up, and that shot had glanced off without connecting solidly. His lip was bleeding profusely, lending a more grisly look to the cuts left behind. Before she'd seen him up close, the blood had scared her half to death. Now it appeared that she had severely overestimated the damage. She slumped back, hand coming up to rest over her face as she took several deep breaths.

God, she had been terrified.

Sitting up straight and removing her hand, Rogue opened her eyes. John was examining her curiously, and she studied him crossly. "Would you mind telling me what the hell you were thinking of, John?"

His slightly damaged lips kicked up, and she winced as the full extent of his cut became apparent. A quick search of her pocket revealed a packet of kleenex, and she set to work mopping up as much blood as she could as her scolding continued. "You know, what I'd like to know...what I'd _really _like to know, is just what you said to him to make him blow up like that. Well?"

He shoved the tissue aside, batting her hands away like a troublesome gnat. "Oh, knock it off."

Rogue shook her head, rocking back on her heels as she examined him knowingly. "Something about me, then? It must have been, if you don't want me to know. Otherwise you'd be bragging over your extraordinary wit." She leaned forward, shoving up his sleeves to examine the welts left on each forearm. Wide, and nasty. They'd take a very long time to fade. "You're incredible, you know that? What were you thinking of? And why the hell didn't you at least fight back properly? He could have killed you." He stiffened, and she glanced up. "Well?"

He started to stand, and she placed herself under his shoulder, helping him as well as she could. He tugged away as he began to move on his own accord, and she asked again. "Why in the world wouldn't you use your lighter? I know that Logan threatened to kick you out, but he'd never hold it against you for defending yourself. Not unless you did any real damage, anyway."

John shrugged awkwardly, wincing as the movement strained his bruised body. "I left it in the room. Didn't think I'd need it for a few hours downstairs."

Rogue started to nod, and then her forehead wrinkled vaguely. "What the hell, John? You take that lighter with you everywhere."

"Yeah, well I didn't take it with me tonight. So what."

Rogue worried her bottom lip, thinking hard. Then, before she had a chance to second guess herself, she took a step forward. He was moving slowly in the aftermath of the fight, and she was able to reach into his pocket easily. As her bare hand closed over the cool metal of the zippo, it all clicked into place.

The mood swings.

The reduced body temperature.

And, that first morning, with the fight in the den. Logan had been standing behind her, his glass of scotch full to the brim. When the flames had blazed up in the fireplace and she'd spun around, the glass had been empty.

Her eyes met John's--cold and fierce and appraising--and she thought she might cry. Without a word, he turned.

Rogue could do nothing but stare helplessly as he walked away from her.

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_Comments more than welcome--as to those who reviewed last chapter, thanks so much. I'll thank you all individually next chapter, when I have a bit more time. _

_If anyone has a suggestion for a new summary, please let me know! I really don't like the current one._


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter Ten**

Rogue stood in the darkened hallway, staring at the door in front of her.

She had held the same position for something like five minutes, only moving to flinch at the occasional crashing sound coming from within. If there had been any doubt in her mind about the conclusion she had reached outside, it was gone now. Had she been mistaken, John's reaction would never have been this strong.

Another random object banged against the wall, directly in front of her. The door vibrated slightly, and Rogue winced. Squaring her shoulders, she opened the door and stepped inside.

John stood before her, resembling nothing so much as a train-wreck personified. His left eye was already showing signs of bruising from Bobby's well-placed jab, and his lip reflected just as much damage. Mussed hair, heavy breathing and fisted hands all combined to make her hesitate at the doorway, now-gloved right hand lingering on the brass knob as she again contemplated the wisdom of coming to the bedroom before he'd had a chance to cool down properly.

His lip curled in an obscene imitation of a smile. "What's the matter, Rogue? Scared?"

She bit her lip, and he grinned, lighter slipping from his pocket to his hand in an fluid, practiced motion. He examined the sleek metal intently, flipping it lightly into the air in a repeated motion as he raised his eyes to fully meet hers. "You are, aren't you? You shouldn't be. There's nothing to be scared of. Not anymore, anyway."

The last was finished on a light chuckle, and Rogue cringed as his expression changed--forming a wordless snarl as the lighter left his hand, shattering the single window across the room. She stepped back, and he smiled again. "No worries, Rogue. It's not as if I need it, you know." His expression went black, and he strode forward, stopping only a few paces away from her. "And you do know, don't you?"

Her hand tightened on the door, and she fought to keep her expression blank. "You know that I do, John."

The breath left him in a humorless chuckle. "Of course you do. Isn't that cute? _You _know." He shoved her lightly, just enough to loosen her grip on the handle, and then slammed the door violently. The noise reverberated throughout the room, and a vase fell from the table closest to them. John's booted foot pushed the loose fragments from his path, and he examined them with a pleased expression. Then his attention returned to her, and he shook his head. "You don't know anything, but _this_ you know. Isn't that rich?"

She didn't say anything. Couldn't say anything.

After a terse silence, John raised a brow. "What, nothing? No screeching or whining, or excuses about how pitiful your pathetic little life is--and how dare _I_, in all my insignificant glory, say a harsh word to an abused little princess such as yourself?" At her continued lack of response, his eyes narrowed. "Or maybe that's it: Maybe you figure that you've finally met someone worse off than you. Am I right?"

She looked away, and John's hand came up to her chin, forcing her to make the eye contact she so desperately wished to avoid.

"My God, that _is _it. You've got in your head that I'm as pathetic as you are, haven't you?" he chuckled loudly as his grip tightened, and Rogue winced. Sneer firmly in place, his hand fell to his side. His eyes blazed, and it seemed wrong somehow; Wrong that his gaze should be so filled with fire, when he...she couldn't finish the thought.

"Get this straight, Rogue. In no way am I anything like you. Whatever I've lost, I didn't give it up willingly. I fought every second. I kicked and yelled and spit. When I was tied up so tight that my wrists and ankles bled, and I couldn't move a muscle, I bit. I did everything I could. And when that fucking bastard came at me with that needle, it took three of them to hold me down--chains or not." He stepped closer, hand locking on her wrist and pulling her in, face mere inches from his. "I may be a lot of things, but I'm not fucking pathetic. So keep your pity to yourself, where it belongs."

Tears had gathered in the corners of her eyes as he spoke. Not at the insults--she had expected those when she had started after him. Knew John well enough to ignore them...or, perhaps that was a lie. To ignore them for now, rather, and then dwell on them later in solitude. Instead, she was fixated on the vibrant images conjured by his words. A memory of him on that first night suddenly struck her, and she remembered all too clearly the scars and bruises, and the prominence of his bones beneath pale, almost translucent skin and a painfully thin frame. It was his eyes, though, that she was most struck by. The strength behind them, mixed in with the hatred and anger and betrayal.

There was no suppressing John, she suddenly realized, and her chest swelled with pride and...something else. Some indefinable emotion that, intermingled with all of the helplessness and confusion she was already feeling, managed to nearly knock her off her feet. Through incarceration, bloodshed and torture, John remained standing, and standing tall. Even the one thing that should have killed him more effectively than a shot to the heart--the loss of the most integral part of him--hadn't crushed him.

He was right, of course, just as he so often was. There was nothing pathetic in him. Nothing to be pitied. On the contrary, it was awe that she felt more than anything. She had thought, at one time, that she knew what strength was. Now, she realized; she didn't have a clue.

But, as she opened her mouth to express all of that, she found that she had no words. The thought of expressing feelings such as those she found herself flooded with to _any_ person was incredibly daunting--the prospect of expressing them to _John_--with whom communicating seemed to veer endlessly between as natural as her own heartbeat, and then as difficult as corresponding with a rock--there was no way. She was doomed before she even opened her mouth. And, knowing that, she found that she couldn't speak. Despite the little voice in her head encouraging her to try; to say something_, anything..._it was as if she were mentally paralyzed. Unable to say even a word. She just stood there, eyes averted, knowing all the while that she was once again failing herself, and, worse, failing John.

As the seconds bled into long moments of screaming silence, John finally turned with a disdainful sneer, staring sightlessly out of the now broken window. His right hand twitched restlessly, seemingly lost without the distraction of the zippo, and Rogue winced at the symbolism of it all even as she cursed her frozen lips.

"Get the fuck out."

His voice was harsh, but restrained, and Rogue winced. She'd rather have the full blast of his fury than this unnatural impassiveness. It was too disarming; too characteristic of the 'new John'. The one that she'd been seeing flashes of since he'd come back, intermingled with the dynamic, sardonic boy who had left her. And yet, it didn't really matter. She was at a loss as to how to approach either of them.

"John," she whispered, because she found that it was the only thing she knew to say. She stepped forward, lying a gloved hand on his shoulder, and he tensed under her touch. It was the first time he'd done that, and the fact that he was now made her feel raw inside.

"Are you deaf? I told you to get out."

"John, please," her eyes closed, seemingly of their own volition, as she tried to summon the right words and failed again. "Can't you understand that all I want is to help you?"

He turned back, eyes narrowed. "Why?"

She shook her head, lost. "Please don't ask me that. You know why."

"If I knew, I wouldn't be asking. Why?"

When she spoke, her voice trembled slightly. "I care about you, John. I always have. You're my friend. More than my friend."

John nodded, lips pursed as if in great consideration. "Okay. I'll take that. But it just leaves one more question." He looked her over dispassionately. "What makes you think I give even the slightest bit of a damn whether you care about me or not?"

Her stomach churned, and she ached all over at his immediate rejection. And, as she thought about it, maybe he was being truthful. Tacit friendship notwithstanding, an eagerness to kiss her and an obvious jealousy towards Bobby didn't necessarily mean...well, anything. Kitty's earlier words were just that: words. But, she reminded herself adamantly, she'd followed him up here expecting every barb in the world to be hurled at her. That wasn't the important thing right now. The important thing was, no matter how John felt about her, she needed him to be okay.

Rogue squared her shoulders, biting back the hurt and steeling herself for even more. "It doesn't matter. What you feel doesn't have anything to do with what I feel. And I'm telling you right now that, if you honestly think I could ever pity you, you're even further out of your mind than I thought. Leaving me--us--to go fight for Magneto didn't change how I thought of you. If I still thought that you were a good person after that, how could I think you were a weak person after this?"

Maybe it didn't make sense, but it was the best she had.

John didn't move, his expression remaining disturbingly taciturn. "Okay, so you don't pity me. I guess you're a little less stupid than I gave you credit for. Now get out."

Rogue shook her head. "Please, John. Please let me help you. Don't you get it? I _need_ to help you. I want to take care of you. I just don't know how," she finished on a mournful note, talking as much to herself as she was to him.

It was clearly the wrong thing to say. He bristled, eyes flashing as he moved forward. "Take care of me? What are you, an idiot? Do you think that there's any reason I'd want you around me at all, besides the chance to piss off your bastard of a boyfriend?"

"Ex-boyfriend," she interrupted softly, not really sure why, but unwilling to let the point slide.

"I could care less. Now get the fuck out." He grabbed her arm as he spoke, fingers digging into the soft flesh as he all but hauled her to the door.

Rogue dug her feet in, grasping the doorknob. John pushed at the door, no doubt in order to open it far enough to shove her out into the hallway, but she held onto it with all her might.

"Stupid fucking..." He grabbed her wrist, twisting it slightly in an effort to get her under control, and wrenching open the door. Rogue fought back fiercely. When he would have pushed her out, for lack of anything else to do, she wrapped her arms around his neck and held on tight. John tensed up immediately, growling curses under his breath and attempting to dislodge her.

"Stop it, John. I'm not going. You can't make me."

"Don't tell me what I can't do. Get the fucking hell out of my room!" He punctuated it with a hard shove, and she lost her balance, managing to bring him to the floor with her. Rogue took immediate advantage of his surprise, settling on his chest with a leg on either side of him, locking his arms at his thighs. He bucked hard, and she held onto the very grains of the carpet to keep the advantage. Some distant voice in her mind asked her what the hell she was doing, but she hadn't the vaguest clue as to the answer. All she knew was that leaving wasn't an option. And if she was crazy, which was entirely likely, at least she was in good company.

Of course, there was no keeping John down for long. He was stronger than she was, and officially in the 'fight' range of the fight or flight impulse. Like a wounded dog, he latched onto her body, spinning her around until she came to rest on the floor with her hands over her head. He held her there, fists practically cutting off her circulation, and a few loose strands of hair fell across his face as he breathed heavily. "Have you lost your mind?" he demanded harshly. "What the hell is the matter with you?"

Rogue just shook her head, eyes wide. "It's funny; I was just wondering the same thing."

The breath escaped him in a disdainful snort. Rogue winced as his hands tightened, forcing her arms to bend at an awkward angle. He leaned forward, pressing her into the floor. He bent over her, so close that the hair she had just been noticing tickled her cheek. "So, you want to help me, huh? You want to," he affected a mockingly sorrowful look, "Get rid of the pain?"

She glared up at him, amazed to conclude from his expression that he actually expected some form of assent. She refused to offer it, and he shrugged.

"Okay. If you're so desperate to distract me from all of the horribly, gut-wrenching angst...I can think of a few things."

Rogue gasped, outraged, and thrashed her hips in an attempt to shake him off.

"That's the spirit!" he exclaimed, hands forcing her own out and away from her, enabling him to brace himself on his forearms as he leant over her, mouth covering hers in a casual, bruising kiss. She continued to thrash, and managed to get one arm free. She took a swing at him, and he deflected her with one arm as he raised his head. "You're not being very supportive, Rogue. Don't you know that I've been through a lot?" Holding her firmly down, he nipped playfully at her throat. Rogue winced, turning her head away as her nails dug into every bit of spare flesh she could reach. She tried to kick him, but was deflected easily.

It wasn't that she was afraid of him so much. Sure, there was a bit of her that was a bit unsettled by his barely contained cruelty. His manner and his words may be flippant, but aggression simmered just below the surface, apparent in his every motion. It was resentment more than anything that caused her to seek to deflect his half-hearted advances so violently. And it was resentment that finally caused her to fight in a different way, kissing him back.

Lips just as hard on his as he had been on hers, she found herself purposely pushing hard against his bruised mouth, getting a disturbing sense of satisfaction out of the way he jerked back for a moment, muttering an exclamation of pain under his breath.

She took advantage of his distraction to free her arms, using the momentum to spin them so that she was once more the one holding him down. "Damn it, John," she grit out, words coming out slowly as she inhaled furiously, exertion wearing at her just as, by the looks of it, it was effecting him. "Why can't you just accept the fact that I care about you, and you care about me, and we need each other?" At his disdainful snort, she let her nails dig furiously into his wrists, glaring at him mightily. It slipped her mind that, in all fairness, up until about ten minutes ago she had been much more guilty of that particular sin than he had. She opened her mouth to speak again, only to find herself once more with her back to the floor.

With one difference.

In the upheaval of their struggle, they had finally managed to drift from the section of the room covered by the heavy wool rug to the uncovered flooring. The sound of Rogue's head connecting solidly with the bare hardwood echoed harshly in her ears, and she winced, bringing suddenly liberated hands to shield her face as the pain spread ruthlessly.

John released her immediately, still breathing hard as he rose to his knees beside her, freeing her body. He helped her to a sitting position, wincing when she immediately shoved him away. With some effort, she raised her knees to her chest, resting her face on them as she encircled them with her arms. She closed her eyes, relieved, as the little black dots dancing across her line of vision immediately disappeared.

John hovered over her anxiously, and, after a moment, she reluctantly opened one eyelid to survey him. He looked utterly, pathetically contrite, for which Rogue was unremorsefully thankful.

"Well," she finally murmured after a few enjoyable moments of watching him squirm uncharacteristically under her chastising stare. "Are you going to help me up or what?"

He moved quickly, practically dragging her to the bed, and Rogue sighed as her aching head came into contact with the soothing fullness of a pillow.

"Are you okay?" John asked, not meeting her eyes. "You want something? Aspirin, or something?"

Rogue gazed up at him, and had to bite back an inappropriate smile at his expression. He looked so utterly ashamed of himself. But, despite her initial irritation, she couldn't bring herself to be angry at him. If he had forgotten who had tackled whom first, she certainly hadn't. And, as the sheer ridiculousness of the last few minutes began to catch up to her, she bit back a giggle.

John looked up sharply, and she smiled, stretching a hand out to him. He looked at it suspiciously, and she raised a brow. "It's called a wordless gesture, John. You, of all people, should know that. And I'd advise you to take it. I may be willing to keep on trying as long as it takes, but it's just going to be so much simpler on the both of us if you take me up on it the first time."

He quirked a brow, and she saw his hand move slightly. Then he stopped, eyes momentarily going cold. "Why now?"

Rogue sighed, frustrated and utterly discouraged by his refusal to let go of a question that, frankly, she had no idea how to answer. "Would you believe me if I told you that your caveman antics have left me gasping for you?" John opened his mouth, and she cut him off with a loose gesture of her hand before dropping it to her side, slumping back on the pillow. "Never mind. You probably would."

The bed shifted, and she opened her eyes to the realization that John was lying next to her, surveying her steadily. Without knowing how it happened, she found that her lips had begun to move. "Okay, I'll try again. I want to be with you now because I want to be with you now. I don't know why, and I've got no idea when it happened. Except that now I do, and it's been coming on for so long that, if I actually had a brain, I would have noticed it a month ago. Or maybe a year ago...I don't know." She ended on a sigh, and closed her eyes. "And that's the best I can do. Blame the head trauma if you want."

Whatever reaction he might have had to that, she couldn't be sure of. She was too busy berating herself for her lack of clarity, both inside and out. All she heard was the bed covers shift as John's hand came to rest on the pillow, not far from her own. "You know, I much prefer your wordless gestures. You really suck at this."

She opened her eyes, glaring at him resentfully. "If you don't like it, you're more than welcome to find somewhere else to sleep."

"This is my bed."

"And I was here first. So--"

He cut her off, yawning as his eyes closed. "You little idiot. Do you even see where my hand is?"

She looked, startled. And then--despite the fact that there were still a million words left unsaid and a zillion problems left hanging...despite the fact that her head hurt and her thoughts were as muddled as her words had been...despite the fact that, though John was already pretending relaxation, the crease between his brow and the scars along his body told an entirely different story--her lips tilted into a slight smile.

Wordless gesture.

Right.


End file.
